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Oman & Sons 




SAMUEL ROGERS 



WITH 



A MEMOIR. 



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NEW YORK: 
LEAVITT & ALLEN 

27 DEY-8TEEET. 

1853. 



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Bt Exchange 
Army Aud Navy Olut* 1 

M*y27, 1921 






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memoir of samuel rogers 
Italy : 

Part I. I. The Lake of Geneva 
II. The Great St. Bernard 

III. The Descent . 

IV. Jorasse 

V. Marguerite de Tours 
VT. The Alps . 

YII. Como 
VIII. Bergamo 

IX. Italy 

X. Coll' alto 

XI. Venice . 
XII. Luigi . 

XIII. St. Mark's Place . 

XIV. The Gondola 
XV. The Brides of Venice 

XVI. Foscari 
XVII. Arqua 
XVIII. Ginevra 
XIX. Bologna . 
XX. Florence 
XXI Don Garzia 
XXII. The Campagna of Florence 
Part II. I. The Pilgrim 
II. An Interview 
lit. Rome 
IV. A Funeral 
V. National Prejudices . 

VI. The Campagna of Rome 
VII. The Roman Pontiffs 

wll. Caius Cestius 
IX. The Nun 
X. The Fire-fly . 

XI. Foreign Travel 

XII. The Fountain 





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CONTENTS. 

XIII. Banditti . 

XIV. An Adventure 
XV. Naples 

XVI. The Bag of Gold 
XVII. A Character 
XVIII. Sorrento 

XIX. Psestiim . 

XX. Monto Cassino 
XXI. The Harper 

XXII. The Felucca 

XXIII. Genoa . 

XXIV. A Farewell 
Notes and Illustrations to " Italy' 

HUMAN LIFE ... 
AN EPlSTLii TO A FRIEND 
JACaUELINB . ... 

MISCELLANEOrS POEMS : 

The Sailor 

Written at Midnight, 1786 

To Two Sisters 

To an Old Oak . 

From Euripedes 

To a Voice that had been Lost 

On a Tear .... 

On Asleep 

The Boy of Egremond 

A Character . 

To a Friend on his Marriage 

A Wish .... 

To .... 

Captivity 

A Farewell 

To the Fralment of a Statue of Hercules 

Italian Song 

From a Greek Epigram 

Written in tiie Highlands of Scotland, &c 

To ih'- BulT.eitiy 

Inscription fur a Temple . 

Written in Wist minster Abbey 

To ..... 

The Alps by Day -break 
An Inscription ... 
The Pleasures of Memory 



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MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 




There seems to be something so repugnant 
to the pursuits of hterature in habits of trade 
and commerce, that the instances have been 
very rare in which they have been combined in 
one individual. The historian of the Medici, 
and Rogers the Poet, are almost solitary in- 
stances of literary taste and talent being united 
harmoniously with traffic. Samuel Rogers is a 
banker in London, and has been for many years 
al the head of a most respectable firm. His 
father followed the same business before him, 
and amassed considerable wealth, both which 
became the heritage of the Poet, who was born 
about the year 1762, in London; but little or 
nothing is known of the way in which he passed 
his early years. His education was liberal, no 
cost having been spared to render him an ac- 
complished scholar. That he improved by 
thought and reflection upon the lessons of his 
youth, there can be no doubt ; and, it is to be 
presumed, he lost no opportunity of reaping 
profit from the extraordinary advantages which 
his station obtained for him. He always kept 
the best society, both as respected rank and 
talent, the circle of which in the metropolis of 




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MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

England in his younger days was more than 
commonly brilliant. His political ideas are 
what are styled liberal, and no one has ever 
been able to reproach him with the abandon- 
ment of a single principle with which he ori- 
ginally set out in life. Over most of his early 
friends and companions the grave has now 
closed, and they included among them many 
great names. 

With a strong attachment for the Muses, after 
the excellent education Rogers received, it is 
not surprising that he ventured before the pub- 
lic. His first work was an " Ode to Supersti- 
tion, and other Poems," which appeared in 
178G. This was followed by a second publica- 
tion, " The Pleasures of Memory," when he 
had passed the greenness of youth, having at- 
tained his thirtieth year. In 1792 this poem 
was received by the public with universal ap- 
plause. The subject was happily chosen, com- 
ing home to the business and bosom of all ; it 
was executed with great care, and various pas- 
sages display uncommon fehcity. As a whole, 
perhaps its chief defect is that it wants vigour, but 
the deficiency in this quality is made up in cor- 
rectness and harmony. Rogers is one of the most 
scrupulous of the sons of the lyre in his metre, 
and he too often sacrifices that harshness which 
sets oft* the smoother passages of a writer's 
works, and prevents sameness and monotony, 
to mere cold purity of style. Perhaps no poem 
of equal size eve; cost its author so many hours 






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MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS, 

to produce. Not satisfied with his own correc- 
tions, hg repeatedly consulted the taste of some 
of his friends ; one of the most devoted of whom, 
Richard Sharpe, then a Mdiolesale hatter, and 
since Member of Parliament,* has said that, 
before the publication of this poem, and while 
preparing the successive editions for press, they 
had read it together several hundred times, 
at home as well as on the Continent, and in 
every temper of mind that varied company and 
varied scenery could produce. 

In the y^nr 1798, Rogers published "An 
Epistle to a Fnend, with other Poems," and in 
1812 " I'he Voyage of Columbus." Two 
years afterwards, in conjunction with Lord 
Byron, or rather printed in the same volume 
wit!i Byron's Lara, appeared his tale of " Jac- 
queliue;" a poem which dispLiys a strange 
contrast to the fire and energy of the author of 
Manfred. Sweet and pleasing rather than strik- 
ing, " Jacqueline," though well received, con- 
tributed little to increase its author's reputation, 
" Human Life," next to tne "Pleasures of Memo- 
ry," is the most finished production of Rogers. 
Tl)e subject was a good one, for it was drawn 

* This gentleman has carried the art of brilliant and 
jnl«resling conversation lo an unprecedented degree of 
perfection, having in fact mduced it lo a mailer of mere 
business, as sysieinaiic as Baok-Keeping. He ke^pa an 
index to his inulliludinoua commonplace books : and has 
a debtor and creditor account with iiis ditferent circles uf 
the jokes let off or the set speeches made. 




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MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

from universal nature, and connected with all 
those rich associations which increase, in attrac- 
tion as we journey onwards in the path of life. 
It is an epitome of man from the cradle to the 
grave, and is executed throughout with the poet's 
wonted care. 

The friendship of Rogers with Sheridan and 
with Byron is well known. When the great 
M'it, dramatist, and orator, was near the close 
of his career, neglected by those who were fore- 
most in the circle of friendg when he enjoyed 
health and prosperity, the individ^cal who re- 
lieved the wants of the dying man was Rogers ; 
whose opulence of purse enabled him to do that 
act of benevolence to his friend, which must 
ever be one of his most gratifying reminiscences. 
It is seldom poets are so well enabled to meet 
the aspirations of their hearts towards others. 
A dispute, on the appearance of Moore's " Life 
ot Sheridan," was very warmly kept up con- 
nected with this circumstance. It was said that 
a friend of Sheridan, of no less rank than a 
former King of England himself, had been 
among those who, in his last moments, were re- 
gardless of the pecuniary necessities of the dy- 
ing man ; that at last, when no longer necessary, 
a sum of money was sent by the royal order, 
which Sheridan returned, saying that it came 
too late, a friend having furnished him with all 
he should require while life remained. Loyalty 
never lacks defenders, or perhaps the Prince of 
Wales was not to blame, as tales of distress are 




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MEMOIR OF SAMUEL KOGEKS. 

always slow in reaching the cars of indiviauals 
in august stations. However the matter might 
have been, the affair was warmly disputed in 
respect to the implied royal neglect, and re- 
mains still in as much uncertainty as ever ; but 
Rogers gloriously carried off the palm of friend- 
ship and feeling on the occasion, let the truth 
lie which side it may, in respect of the tender 
from a higher quarter. Byron and Rogers were 
on terms of great intimacy, both in England 
and during the poet's residence in Italy. In 
that medley of truth and falsehood, the " Recol- 
lections of Byron" by Medwin, the noble poet 
is described as alluding to a singular talent for 
epigram, which Rogers is made to possess. 
This talent, however, has been very sparingly 
employed. Certain buffoons and scribblers in 
Sunday newspapers, who have been opposed 
from political principles, or rather whose pay at 
the moment was on the opposite side to that 
taken by the venerable poet, impudently 
ascribed a thousand bons-mots and repartees to 
Rogers, whom they never saw in their lives, 
and which they manufactured themselves. His 
skill in writing epigram, however, is acknow- 
ledged ; but what he has produced is the work 
of the scholar and the gentleman ; for there is 
not an individual in existence less likely to tres- 
pass on the rules prescribed for the conduct of 
either, by the regulations of social intercourse. 

Our poet has travelled much out of his own 
country, and he is not less a master of manners 




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in the better classes of society abroad than at 
home. His " Sketches in Italy," prove that he 
was no unobservant sojourner abroad ; and as 
his opportunities for observation were great, he 
did not fiiil to profit by them proportionately. — 
This may be noticed in his conversation, which 
is always amusing and instructive ; and, more 
particularly, when, visiting the circles of his 
fashionable or learned friends, he becomes the 
spokesman on some topic which interests him, 
and which he sees affording gratification to others. 
Rogers never entered upon the stormy ocean 
of politics. This is singular, from the number 
of his political friends, and the example set him 
by his father. The elder Rogers was renowned 
in the annals of parliamentary elections for a 
severe contest with Colonel Holroyd, subse- 
quently Lord Sheffield, in dividing the suffrages 
of the city of Coventry, when tlie obstinacy of 
the combat attracted much attention. He has 
wisely preferred the gratification of a pure taste, 
and the interchanges of urbanity, to tlie stirring 
hazards of political ambition : notwithstanding 
which he is a warm partisan of the principles 
he has chosen, and understands well how to 
maintain them. What he has done every way 
proves that he is conscious of his own powers, 
but careless of indulging them, though much in 
this respect may no doubt be attributed to his 
unceasing attention to the calls of business, 
from which he never allows himself to be di- 
verted. 



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MEIMOir. OF SAMUEL llOG-ERS. 

Rogers is now in the " sere and yellow leaf " 
of human vegetation. He is the land agreea- 
ble, affable old man ; but there is nothing be- 
yond the good and amiable m character aepicted 
upon a countenance by no means the best 
formed and most impressive of the species it 
the features are separately considered. Ms 
habits are remarkably regular and his condac 
governed by that urbanity and breeding whica 
thow he has been accustomed to mingle mos 
in the best society .-He takes a great interest 
in ail that promotes the improvement ot tti. 
state and contributes to the comfort and happi- 
ness of his fellow-men. In short, Rogers, hke 
all men of genius, if possessmg certain eccen- 
tricities, is gifted with the impress of higa in- 
tellect which belongs to that character, and 
which makes it so distinguished above the herd 
of mankind. There is about Rogers, however, 
asortofo^ium ciun digmtate which seems to 
repress his energies, and to keep inactive a spirit 
which, had it been less indebted to good fortune 
and flung more upon its own resources, would 
have performed greater things.. 

\mong the friends of Rogers were Fox, bher 
idan, Windham, and a galaxy of distinguished 
names, when they were in the ^emth of their 
dorv To the illustrious nephew ot i'ox,^ tue 
well-known Lord Holland, and to his fnenas ol 
the same political party, Rogers still adheres 
He is accounted one of the literary coterie at 
Holland House, the hospitable receptacle ot men 












oi talent irom all countries and of all creeds. He 
is introduced in the Novel of " Glenarvon" at 
the court of the Princess of Madagascar (a 
character intended for Lady Holland) : and per- 
haps the name of no individual is more on the 
lips of a certain fashionable order of persons who 
are attached to literary pursuits, than that of 
Rogers. His opinion is looked up to, and justly, 
as one of great weight ; and though not devoi"3. 
of a certain irritability of temper, his general 
good-nature and kindness, — for he shows no 
tincture of envy in his character, — conU'ibute 
largely to increase the influence and impression 
made by his judgment. 

Such is the sum of all which is known of 
Samuel Rogers, — a poet who never rises to the 
height of Byron or Campbell, but who is of the 
same school. He is remarkable principally for 
the elegance and grace of his compositions, 
which he pohshes up and smooths off as if he 
valued only their brilliancy and finish, and for- 
got that strength and force are essential to poetic 
harmony and the perfection of metrical style. 
Notwithstanding this defect, Rogers will be 
read and admired while the English language 
continues to be used or spoken in his native 
islands. 









THE LAKE OF GENEVA. 



Day glimmer' d in the east, and the white 
Moon 
Hung Uke a vapour in the cloudless sky, 
Yet visible, when on my way T went, 
Glad to be gone— a pilgrim from the north, 
Now more and more attracted as I drew 
Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan, 
Drowsy, half-clad, had from his window leant, 
With folded arms and listless look to snufF 
The morning air, or the caged sky-lurk sung, 
From his green sod up-springing — but in vain. 
His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song 
Old in the days of Homer, and his wings 
With transport quivering, on my way i went, 
Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily. 
Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut ; 
As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived,* 

♦Rosseau. 



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14 ITALY. 

Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee 
Inscribed to consecrate (such virtue dwells 
In those small syllables) the narrow street, 
His birth-place — when, but one short step too 

late, 
He sate him down and wept — wept till the 

morning ; 
Then rose to go — a wanderer througn the 

world. 

' T is not a tale that every hour brings with it. 
Yet at a City-gate, from time to time, 
Much might be learnt ; and most of all at thine 
London — thy hive the busiest, greatest, still 
Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by, 
And note who passes. Here comes one, a 

Youth, 
Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious 

power, 
A Chatterton — in thought admired, caress'd, 
And crown' d like Petrarch in the Capitol; 
Ere long to die — to fall by his own hand. 
And fester with the vilest. Here come two, 
Less feverish, less exalted — soon to part, 
A Garrick and a Johnson ; Wealth and Fame 
Awaiting one — even at the gate. Neglect 
And Want the other. But what multitudes, 
Urged by the love of change, and, like myself, 
Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare, 
Press on — though but a rill entering the Sea, 
Entering and lost ! Our task would never end. 

Day glimmer'd and I went, a gentle breeze 
Ruffling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave, 



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ITALY. 

If such they might be call'd, dash'd as in sport, 
Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach 
Making wild music, and far westward caught 
The sun-beam — where, alone, and as entranced, 
Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff 
Lay with his circular and dotted line, 
Fishing in silence. When the heart is light 
With hope, all pleases, nothing comes amiss ; 
And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by. 
Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers, 
And many a chanticleer and partlet caged 
For Vevay's market-place — a motley group 
Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 'twas 

gone. 
The shifting sail flapp'd idly for an instant, 
Then bore them off. 

I am not one of those 
So dead to all things in this visible world, 
So wondrously profound — as to move on 
In the sweet light of heaven, Uke him of old 
(His name is justly in the Calendar) 
Who through the day pursued this pleasant path 
That winds beside the mirror of all beauty, 
And, when at eve his fellow-pilgrims sate. 
Discoursing of the lake, ask'd where it was. 
They marvelFd, as they might ; and so must all, 
Seeing what now I saw : for now 't was day, 
And the bright Sun was in the firmament, 
A thousand shadows of a thousand hues 
Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb 
Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont 

Blanc, 






Thy seas of ice ana ice-built promontories, 
That change their shapes for ever as in sport ; 
Then travelled onward, and went down behind 
The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up 
The woodman's casement, and perchance his 

axe 
Borne homeward through the forest in his hand ; 
And, in some deep and melancholy glen, 
That dungeon-fortress never to be named, 
Where, like a lion taken in the toils, 
Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous 

spirit. 
Ah, little did He think, who sent him there, 
That he himself, then greatest among men. 
Should in like manner be so soon convey' d 
Across the ocean — to a rock so small 
Amid the countless multitude of waves. 
That ships have gone and sought it, and re- 
turn' d, 
Saying it was not ! 

Still along the shore, 
Among the trees I went for many a mile. 
Where damsels sit and weave their fishing- 
nets, 
Singing some national song by the way-side. 
But now 't was dusk, and journeying by the 

Rhone, 
That there came down, a torrent from the Alps, 
I enter' d where a key unlocks a kingdom,* 
The mountains closing, and the road, the river 



♦ St. Maurice, 



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ITALY, 



17 



Filling the narrow pass. There, till a ray 
Glaaced through my lattice, and the household- 
stir 
Warn'd me to rise, to rise and to depart, 
A stir unusual and accompanied 
With many a tuning of rude instruments, 
And many a laugh that argued coming plea- 

sure, 
Mine host's fair daughter for the nuptial rite, 
And nuptial feast attiring — there I slept, 
And in my dreams wander' d once more, well- 
pleased. 
But now a charm was on the rocks, and woods. 
And waters ; for, methought, I was with those 
I had at morn, at even, wish'd for there. 



THE GREAT ST. BERNARD. 

NmiiT was again descending, when mjr 

mule, 
That all day long had climb' d among the clouds. 
Higher and higher still, as by a stair 
Let down from Heaven itself, transporting me, 
Stopp'd, to the joy of both, at that low door 
So near the summit of the Great St. Bernard ; 
That door which ever on its hinges moved 
To them that knock' d and nightly sends abroad 
Ministering Spirits. Lying on the watch, 
Two dogs of grave demeanor welcomed me 

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ITALY. 



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A.11 meekness, gentleness, though large of limb , 
And a lay-brother of the Hospital, 
Who, as we toil'd below, had heard by fits 
The distant echoes staining on his ear. 
Came and held fast my stivrup in his hand, 
While I alighted. 

Long could I have stood, 
With a religious awe contemplating 
That House, the highest in the Ancient World, 
And placed there for the noblest purposes. 
'T was a rude pile of simplest masonry, 
With narrow windows and vast buttresses, 
Built to endure the shocks of Time and Chance, 
Yet showing many a rent, as well it might, 
Warr'd on for ever by the elements, 
And in an evil day, nor long ago. 
By violent men — when on the mountain-top 
The French and Austrian banners met in con- 
flict. 

On the same rock beside 3t stood the church, 
Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity ; 
The vesper-bell, for 't was the vesper-hour, 
Duly proclaiming through the wilderness, 
" All ye who hear, whatever be your work, 
Stop for an instant — move your lips in prayer I'* 
And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale, 
If dale it might be call'd, so near to Heaven, 
A little lake, where never fish leap'd up, 
Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow ; 
A star, the only one in that small sky, 






41 



On its dead surface glimmering. 'T was 

scene 
Resembling nothing I had left behind, 
As though all worldly ties were now dis- 
solved ; — 
And to incline the mind still more to thought, 
To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore 
Under a beetling cliff stood half in shadow 
A lonely chapel destined for the dead, 
For such as, having wander'd from their way, 
Had perish'd miserably. Side by side, 
Withui they lie, a mournful company 
All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them ; 
Their features full of life, yet motionless 
In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change, 
Though the barr'd windows, barrd against 

the wolf. 
Are always open ! 

But the Bise blew cold ; 
And, bidden to a spare but cheerful meal, 
I sate among the holy brotherhood 
At their long board. The fare indeed was such 
As is prescribed on days of abstinence, 
But might have pleased a nicer taste than mine ; 
And through the floor came up, an ancient 

matron 
Serving unseen below ; while from the roof 
(The roof, the floor, the walls of native fir), 
A lamp hung flickering, such as loves to fling 
Its partial light on Apostolic heads. 
And sheds a grace on all. Theirs Time as yet 



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Had changed not. Some were almost in the 

prime ; 
Nor was a brow o'ercast. Seen as I saw them, 
Ranged round their ample hearih-stone in an 

hour 
Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile, 
As children ; answering, and at once, to all 
The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth ; 
Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk 
Music ; and gathering news from them that 

came, 
As of some other world. But when the storm 
Rose, and the snow roll'd on in ocean-billows, 
When on his face the experienced traveller 

fell, 
Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands, 
Then all was changed ; and, sallying with their 

pack 
Into that blank of nature, they became 
Unearthly beings. " Anselm, higher up. 
Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long, 
And now, as guided by a voice from Heaven, 
Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence 
Whose can it be, but his who never err'd ? 
Let us to work ! there is no time to lose ! — 
But who descends Mont Velan? 'T is La 

Croix. 
Away, away ! if not, alas, too late. 
Homeward he drags an old man and a boy, 
Fahering and falling, and but half awaken'd, 
Asking to sleep again." Such their discourse. 



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ITALY. 

Oft has a venerable roof received me .; 
St. Bruno's once* — where, when the winds 

were hush'd, 
Nor from the cataract the voice came up, 
You might have heard the mole work under- 
ground, 
So great the stillness of that place ; none seen, 
Save when from rock to rock a hermit cross' d 
By some rude bridge— or one at midnight toll'd 
To matins, and white habits, issuing forth, 
Glided along those aisles interminable, 
All, all observant of the sacred law 
Of silence. Nor is that sequester'd spot, 
Once called "Sweet Waters," now "The 

Shady Vale,"t 
To me unknown; that house so rich of old. 
So courteous, and by two, that pass'd that 

Amply requited with immortal verse, 
The Poet's payment. 

But, among them all, 
None can with this compare, the dangerous 

seat 
Of generous, active Virtue. What though 

Frost 
Reign everlastingly, and ice and snow 
Thaw not, but gather — there is that within, 






* The Grande Chartreuse. 

t Vallombrosa, formerly called Acqua Bella. 

% Arioslo and Millun. 





V 



ITALT. 



Which, where it comes, makes Summer ; ami 

in thought , 
Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath 
Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates 
Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe 
Those from the South ascending, every step 
As though it were their last — and instantly 
Restored-j renew'd, advancing as with songs, 
Soon as thy see, turning a lofty crag. 
That plain, that modest structure, promising 
Bread to the hungry, (3) to the weary rest. 

in. 

THE DESCENT. 

My mule refresh'd — and, let the truth be 

told. 
He was not of that vile, that scurvy race, 
From sire to son lovers of controversy, 
But patient, diligent, and sure of foot, 
Shunning the loose stone on the precipice, 
Snorting suspicion while with sight, smell, 

touch, 
Examining the wet and spongy moss, 
And on his haunches sitting to slide down 
The steep, the smooth — my mule refresh'd, his 

bells 
Gingled once more, the signal to depart. 
And we set out in the gray light of dawn, 
Descending rapidly — by waterfalls 
Fast-frozen, and among huge blocks of ice 



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That in their long career had stopt mid-way, 
At length, uncheck'd, unbidden, he stood still; 
And all his bells were mnftled. Then my 

Guide, 
Lowering his voice, address'd me : " Through 

this Chasm 
On and say nothing — for a word, a breath, 
Stirring the air, may loosen and bring down 
A winter's snow — enough to overwhelm 
The horse and foot that, night and day, defiled 
Along this path to conquer at Marengo. 
Well I remember how I met them here, 
As the light died away, and how Napoleon, 
Wrapt in his cloak — I could not be deceived — 
Rein'd in his horse, and ask'd me, as I pass'd, 
How far 't was to St. Remi. Where the rock 
Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away, 
Narrows almost to nothing at its ba&e, 
'T was there^' and down along the brink he 

led 
To Victory ! — Dessaix, who turn'd the scale, (4) 
Leaving his life-blood in that famous field 
(When the clouds break, we may discern the 

spot 
In the blue haze), sleeps, as you saw at 

dawn. 
Just as you enter' d, in the Hospital-church." 
So saying, for awhile he held his peace. 
Awe-struck beneath that dreadful Canopy ; 
But soon, the danger pass'd, launch' d forth 

again. 






ITALT. 



IV. 



JORASSE. 

JoRASSE was in his three-and-twentieth year ; 
Graceful and active as a stag just roused ; 
Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech, 
Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up 
Among the Hunters of the Higher Alps ; 
Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness, 
Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies, 
Said to arise by those who dwell below, 
From frequent dealings with the Mountain- 
Spirits. 
But other ways had taught him better things ; 
And now he numbered, marching by my side, 
The Savans, Princes, who with him had cross'd 
The frozen tract, with him familiarly 
Through the rough day and rougher night con- 
versed 
In many a chalet round the peak of terror,* 
Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn and Rosenlau, 
And Her, whose throne is inaccessible, t 
Who sits, withdrawn, in virgin-majesty, 
Nor oft unveils. Anon an Avalanche 
RoU'd its long thunder ; and a sudden crash, 
Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear 
Told that far-down a continent of Ice 
Had burst in twain. But he had now begun, 
And with what transport he recall' d the hour 
When to deserve, to win his blooming bride, 



i^ 



* The Schrekhorn. 



+ The Jung-frau. 







'<t '>•, 



Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound 
The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod 
The Upper reahns of Frost ; then, by a cord 
Let half-way down, enter'd a Grot star-bright, 
And gather'd from above, below, around. 
The pointed crystals ! 

Once, nor long before 
(Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet, 
And with an eloquence that Nature gives 
To all her children — breaking off by starts 
Into tJie harsh and rude, oft as the Mule 
Drew his displeasure) once, nor long before, 
Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg, 
He slipp'd, he fell ; and, through a fearful cleft 
Gliding from lodge to ledge, from deep to 

deeper, 
Went to the Under- world ! Long- while he lay 
Upon his rugged bed — then waked like one 
Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever .' 
For, looking round, he saw or thought he saw 
Innumerable branches of a Cavern, 
Winding beneath a solid crust of ice ; 
With here and there a rent that show'd the 

stars ! 
What then, alas, was left him but to die ? 
What else in those immeasurable chambers. 
Strewn with the bones of miserable men. 
Lost like himself ? Yet must he wander on, 
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free ! 
And, rising, he began his dreary round ; 
When hark, the noise as of some mighty River 






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ITALY. 



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Working its way to light ! Back he withdrew, 
But soon reurn'd, and, fearless from despair, 
Dash'd down the dismal Channel ; and all day, 
If day could be where utter darkness was, 
Travell'd incessantly, the craggy roof 
Just over-head, and the impetuous waves, 
Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength 
Lashing him on. At last the water slept 
In a dead lake — at the third step he took, 
Unfathomable — and the roof, that long 
Had threaten'd, suddenly descending, lay 
Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood, 
His journey ended ; when a ray divine 
Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to 

Her 
Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin, 
He plunged, he swam — and in an instant rose, 
The barrier past, in light, in sunshine ! Through 
A smiling valley, full of cottages. 
Glittering the river ran ; and on the bank 
The young were dancing ('t was a festival-day) 
All in their best attire. There first he saw 
His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear, 
When all drew round, inquiring ; and her face, 
Seen behind all, and, varying, as he spoke, 
With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy, 
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved. 

The tale was long, but coming to a close 
When his dark eye flash' d fire, and, stopping 
short. 



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ITALY. 

He listen'd and look'd up. I look'd up too ; 
And twice therr came a hiss that through me 

thrill' d ! 
'T was heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff 
Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear, 
And all were gone. 

But now the thread was broken ; 
Love and its joys had vanish' d from his mind ; 
And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes 
When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay, 
(His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung, 
His axe to hew a stair-case in the ice) 
He track' d their footsteps. By a cloud sur- 
prised. 
Upon a crag among the precipices. 
Where the next step had hurl'd them fifty 

fathoms. 
Oft had they stood, lock'd in each other's arms, 
All the long night under a freezing sky. 
Each guarding each the while from sleeping, 

falling. 
Oh, 't was a sport he lov'd dearer than life. 
And only would with life itself relinquish ! 
*' My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds. 
As for myself," he cried, and he held forth 
His wallet in his hand, " this do I call 
My winding-sheet — for I shall have no other !" 

And he spoke truth. Within a little month 
He lay among these awful solitudes, 
('T was on a glacier — half-way up to Heaven) 
Taking his final rest. Long did his wife 



J\r^ 






Suckling her babe, her only one, look out 
The way he went at parting, but he came not ! 
Long fear to close her eyes, lest in her sleep 
(Such their belief) he should appear before her, 
Frozen and ghastly pale, or crush'd and bleed- 

''^ To tell her where he lay, and supplicate 

For the last rite ! At length the dismal news 
Came to her ears, and to her eyes his corse. 

V 

MARGUERITE DE TOURS. 

Now the grey granite, starting through the 

snow, 
Discoyer'd many a variegated moss * 
That to the pilgrim resting on his staff 
Shadows out capes and islands ; and ere long 
Numberless flowers, such as disdain to Hve 
In lower regions, and delighted drink 
The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues, 
With their diminutive leaves cover'd the 

ground. 
'T was then, that, turning by an ancient larch, 
Shiver'd in two, yet most majestical 
With its long level branches, we observed 
A human figure sitting on a stone 
Far down by the way-side — just v.'here the rock 
Is riven asunder, and the Evil One 
Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument (5) 




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ITALY. 

Built in one night, from which the flood beneath, 
Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard, 
And seen a? motionless ! 

Nearer we drew, 
And 't was a woman young and delicate, 
Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot, 
Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand 
In deepest thought. Young as she was, she 

wore 
The matron-cap ; and from her shape we 

judged, 
As well we might, that it would not be long 
Ere she became a mother. Pale she look'd. 
Yet cheerful; though, methought, once, if not 

twice, 
She wiped away a tear that would be coming : 
And in tho&e moments her small hat of straw. 
Worn on one side, and garnish' d with a riband 
Glittering with gold, but ill conceal'd a face 
Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up 
On our approach, she journey'd slowly on ; 
And my companion, long before we met. 
Knew, and ran down to greet her. 

She was born 
(Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears) 
In Val d'Aosta ; and an Alpine stream, 
Leaping from crag to crag in its short course 
To join the Dora, turn'd her father's mill. 
There did she blossom till a Valaisan, 
A townsman of Marligny, v/on her heart, 
Much to the old man's grief. Long he held out, 
Unwilling to resign her ; and at length, 



fv*^. 










ITALY. 

When the third summer came, they stole a 

match 
And fled. The act was sudden ; and when far 
Away, her spirit had misgivings. Then 
She pictured to herself that aged face 
Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in anger ; 
And, when at last she heard his hour was near, 
Went forth unseen, and, burden' d as she was, 
Cross'd the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness, 
And hold him to her heart before he died. 
Her task was done. She had fulfill' d her wish. 
And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping. 
A frame like hers had suffer' d ; but her love 
Was strong within her ; and right on she went. 
Fearing no ill. May all good Angels guard her ! 
And should I once again, as once I may,. 
Visit Martigny, I will not forget 
Thy hospitable roof, Marguerite de Tours ; 
Thy sign the silver swan.* Heaven prosper 

Thee ! 

VI. 

THE ALPS. 

Who first beholds those everlasting clouds. 
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and 

night. 
Still where they were, steadfast, immovable ; 
Who first beholds the Alps — that mighty cham 
Of Mountains, stretching on from east to west, 

♦ La Cygne. 







So massive, yet 80 shadowy, so ethereal, 

As to belong rather to Heaven than Earth 

But instantly receives into his soul 

A sense, a feeling that he loses not, 

A something that informs him 't is a moment 

Whence he may date henceforward and for ever? 

To me they seem'd the barriers of a World, 
Saying, Thus far, no farther ! and as o'er 
The level plain I travell'd silently, 
Nearing them more and more, day after day, 
My wandering thoughts my only company, 
And they before me still, oft as I look'd, 
A strange delight, mingled with fear, came o'er 

me 
A wonder as at things I had not heard of! 
Oft as I look'd, I felt as though it were 
For the first time ! 

Great was the tumult there, 
Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp 
The Carthaginian on his march to Rome 
Entered their fastnesses. Trampling the snows, 
The war-horse reared ; and the tower' d ele- 
phant 
Upturn' d his trunk into the murky sky. 
Then tumbled headlong, swallow'dup and lost, 
He and his rider. 

Now the scene is changed ; 
And o'er Mont Cenis, o'er the Simplon winds 
A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone 
Flung about carelessly, it shines afar. 
Catching the eye in many a broken link. 






^A? % 



32 



ITALY. 



In many a turn and traverse as it glides ; 
And oft above and oft below appears, 
Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up, 
As though It were another, not the same, 
Leading along he knows not whence or whither. 
Yet through its fairy course, go where it will, 
The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock 
Opens and lets it in ; and on it runs, 
Winning its easy w^ay from clime to clime 
Through glens lock'd up before. 

Not such my path ! 
Mine but for those, who, like Jean Jacques, de- 
light 
In dizziness, gazing and shuddering on 
Till fascination comes and the brain turns ! 
Mine, though I judge but from my ague-fits 
Over the D ranee, just where the Abbot fell, 
The same as Hannibal's. 

But now 't is past, 
That turbulent Chaos ; and the promised land 
Lies at my feet in all its loveliness ! 
To him who starts up from a terrible dream, 
And lo the sun is shining, and the lark 
Singing aloud for joy, to him is not 
Such sudden ravishment as now I feel 
At the first glimpses of fair Italy. 




VII. 

COMO. 

I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake 
Under the shore — though not to visit Pliny, 




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ITALY. 

To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk, 
Or fishing, as he might be, from his wmdow 
And,to deal pkiinly,(may his Shade forgive me !) 
Could I recall the ages past, and play 
The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve 
My leisure for Catullus on his Lake, 
Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm 
A httle further on the way to Mantua. 
But such things cannot be. So I sit still, 
And let the boatman shift his little sail, 
His sail so forked and so swallow-like. 
Well-pleased with all that comes. The morn- 
ing air 
Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging _ round 
A silvery gleam : and now the purple mists 
Rise like a curtain ; now the sun looks out, 
Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious hght 
This noble amphitheatre of mountains ; 
And now appear as on a phosphor-sea 
Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pavia ; 
Some sailing up, some down, and some at 

anchor. 
Lading, unlading at that small port-town 
Under the promontory— its tall tower ^ 
And long flat roof, just su-h as Poussin drew, 
Caught by a sun-beam slanting through a 

A quay-Hke 'scene, glittering and full of life. 
And doubled by reflection. 

What delight, 

After so long a sojourn in the wild, 
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34 ITALY. 

To hear once more the sounds of cheerful labour 
•^But in a clime like this where are they not 
Along the shores, among the hills 'tis now 
The heyday of the Vintage ; all abroad, 
But most the young and of the gentler sex. 
Busy in gathering ; all among the vines, 
Some on the ladder, and some underneath, 
Filling their baskets of green wicker-work, 
While many a canzonet and frolic laugh 
Come through the leaves ; the vines in light 

festoons 
From tree to tree, the trees in avenues. 
And every avenue a cover' d walk. 
Hung with black clusters. 'T is enough to 

make 
The sad mad merry, the benevolent one 
Melt into tears — so general is the joy ! 
While up and down the cliffs, over the lake, 
Wains oxen-drawn, and pannier' d mules are 

seen. 
Laden with grapes, and dropping rosy wine. 

Here I received from thee, Filippo Mori, 
One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare ! 
When, as 1 rambled through thy vineyard- 
ground 
On the hill-side, thou sent'st thy little son. 
Charged with a bunch almost as high as he, 
To press it on the stranger. 

May thy vats 
O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer, 



f/^ 



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ITALY. 



35 



Live to be come ere-!ong himself a giver ; 
And indue time, when thou art full of honour, 
The staff of thine old age ! 

In a strange land 
Such things, hov/ever trifling, reach tlie heart, 
And through the heart the head, clearing away 
The narrow notions that grow up at home, 
And in their place grafting Good- Will to All. 
At least I found it so ; nor less at eve, 
When, bidden as an English traveller 
('T was by a httle boat that gave me chase 
With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I cross'd 
The bay of Tramezzine), right readily 
[ turn'd my prow and follow' d, landing soon 
Where steps of purest marble met the wave ; 
Where, through the trellises and corridors, 
Soft music came as from Armida's palace, 
Breathing enchantment o'er the woods, the 

waters ; 
And through a bright pavilion, bright as day. 
Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among 
Such as of old in sober pomp swept by. 
Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts 
Painted by Cagliari ; where the world danced 
Under the starry sky, while I look'd on. 
Admiring, listening, quaffing gramolata, 
And reading, in the eyes that sparkled round 
The thousand love-adventures written there. 



Can I forget — no, never, such a scene 
So full of witchery I Night linger'd still, 





ITALY. 

When, with a dying breeze, I left Bellaggio ; 
But the strain follow'd me ; and still I saw 
Thy smile, Angelica ; and still I heard 
Thy voice — once and again bidding adieu. 

VIII. 

BERGAMO. 

The song was one that I had heard before, 
But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness ; 
And turning round from the delicious fare 
My landlord's little daughter, Barbara, 
Had from her apron just roll'd out before me, 
Figs and rock-melons — at the door I saw- 
Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like 
They were, and poorly clad, but not unskill'd; 
With their small voices and an old guitar 
Wirming their mazy progress to my heart 
In that, the only universal language. 
But soon they changed the measure, entering on 
A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour, 
A war of words, and waged with looks and 

gestures, 
Between Trappanti and his ancient dame, 
Mona Lucilia. To and fro it went ; 
While many a titter on the stairs was heard, 
And Barbara's among them. 

When 't was done, 
Their dark eyes flash'd no longer, yet, me- 

thought, 
In many a glance as from the soul, express'd 





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ITALY. 



37 



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More than enough to serve them. Far or near, 
Few let them pass unnoticed ; and there was not 
A mother round about for many a league, 
But could repeat their story. Twins they were, 
And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world ; 
Their parents lost in the old ferry-boat 
That, three years since, last Martinmas, went 

down 
Crossing the rough Penacus.* 

May they live 
Blameless and happy — rich they cannot be, 
Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy, (7) 
Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door, 
Crying without, " Give me a lay to sing !" 
And soon in silk (such then the pov/er of song) 
Return' d to ihank him ; or like him, wayworn 
And lost, who, by the foaming Adig5 
Descending from the Tyrol, as night fell, 
Knock'd at a city-gate near the hill-foot. 
The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone. 
An eagle on a ladder, and at once 
Found welcome — nightly in the banner'd hall 
Turning his harp to tales of Chivalry 
Before the great Mastino, (8) and his guests, 
The three-and-twenty, by some adverse fortune, 
By war or treason or domestic nialice. 
Reft of their kingly crowns, reft of their all. 
And living on his bounty. 

But who now 
Entering the chamber, flourishing a scroll 

* Looro di Garda. 



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38 ITA r.Y. 

In bis right Iv-ind, h'p left at every step 
Brushing the floor with v.h it was once a hat 
Of ceremony. Gliding on, he comes. 
Slipshod, ungartcr'd ; liis long suit of black 
Dingy and threadbare, though renew' d in 

patches 
Till it has almost ceased to be the old one. 
At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads 
" 'T is my necessity !" he stops and speaks. 
Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face 

" I am a Poet, Signor: — give me leave 
To bid you welcome. Though you shrink 

from notice, 
The splendour of your name has gone before you. 
And Italy from sea to sea rejoices, 
As well indeed she may ! But I transgress : 
I too have known the weight of praise, and 

ought 
To spare another." 

Saying so, he laid 
His sonnet, an impromptu, on my table, 
And bow'd and left me ; in his hollow hand 
Receiving my small tribute, a zecchino, 
Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees. 

My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine, 
" The very best in Bergamo ! had long 
Fled from all eyes ; or, like the young Gil Bias 
De Santillane, I had perhaps been seen 
Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise. 



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ITALV 





Am I in Italy ? Is this the Mincius ? 
Are those the distant turrets of Verona ? 
And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque 
Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by 

him ? 
Such questions hourly do I ask myself; 
And not a finger-post by the road-side 
*' To Mantua"—" To Ferrara"— but excites 
Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation. 

O Italy, how beautiful thou art ! 
^et I could weep— for thou art lying, alas ! _ 
Low in the dust ; and they who come, admire 

thee 
As we admire the beautiful in death. 
Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of Beauty. 
Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou 

wast, 
Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee ! 
—But why despair? Twice hast ihou lived 

already. 
Twice shone among the nations of the world, 
As the sun shines among the lesser lights 
Of heaven ; and shalt again. The hour shall 

come. 
When thev who think to bind the ethereal 

spirit , 
Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, 



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ITALY. 

Waich with quick eye, and strike and strike 

again 
If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess 
Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame 
Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously 
And, dying, left a spendour like the day. 
That like the day ditfused itself, and still 
Blesses the earth — the hght of genius, virtue, 
Greatness irt thought and act, contempt of 

death. 
Godlike example. Echoes that have slept 
Since Athens, Lacedsemon, were themselves. 
Since men invoked " By Those in Marathon !" 
Awake along the ^gean ; and the dead. 
They of that sacred shore, have heard the call, 
Av.d through the ranks, from wing to wing, are 

seen 
Moving as once they were — instead of rage 
Breatliing deliberate valour. 

X. 

COLL'ALTO. 

Tn this neglected mirror (9) (the broad frame 
Of massive silver serves to testify 
That many a noble matron of the house 
Has sate before it) once, alas, was seen 
What led to many sorrows. From that time 
The bat came hither for a sleeping-place ; 
And he, who cursed another in his heart, 



^ 




ITALY. 




Said, " Be thy dwelling through the day, the 

night, 
Shunn'd Hke CoU'alto."' 'T was in that old 

Castle, 
Which tlanks the cliff with its grey battlements 
Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest, 
Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward, 
Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left 

hmi, 
Address'd me, as we enter'd what was call'd 
"My Lady's Chamber." On the walls, the 

chairs, 
Much yet remain' d of the rich tapestry; 
Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot 
In the green glades of some enchanted forest. 
The toilet table was of massive silver, 
Florentine Art, when Florence was renown'd ; 
A gay confusion of the elements. 
Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and 

flowers, 
And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage, 
Hung a small bird of curious workmanship. 
That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold 
(So said at least the babbhng Dame, Tradition) 
His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again 
The song that pleased her. While I stood and 

look'd, 
A gleam of day yet lingering in the West, 
The Steward went on. 

" She had ('t is now long since) 
A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina, 
Fair as a lily, and as spotless too ; 







ITALY. 

None so admired, beloved. They had grown up 
As play-fellows ; and some there were, who 

said, 
Some who knew much, discoursing of Cristina, 
' She is not what she seems.' When unre- 
quired. 
She would steal forth ;.her custom, her delight, 
To wander through and through an ancient grove 
Self-planted half-way down, losing herself 
Like one in love with sadness ; and her veil 
And vesture white, seen ever in that place, 
Ever as surely as the hours came round. 
Among those reverend trees, gave her below 
The name of The White Lady. But the day 
Is gone, and I delay you. 

In that chair 
The Countess', as it might be now, was sitting. 
Her gentle serving-'maid, the fair Cristina, 
Combing her golden hair ; and, through this 

door 
The Count, her lord, was hastening, call'daway 
By letters of great urgency to Venice ; 
When in the glass she saw, as she believed, 
('T was an illusion of the Evil Spirit- 
Some say he came and cross' d it at the instant) 
A smile, a glance at parting, given an'd an- 
swer' d. 
That turn'd her blood to gall. That very night 
The deed was done. That night, ere yet the 

Moon 
Was up on Mon!e Calvo, and the wolf 
Baying as still he does (oft do I hear him, 





ITALY. 

An hour and more by the old turret- clock), 
They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristina, 
Helping her down in her distress— to die. 

" No blood was spilt ; no instrument of death 
Lurk'd— or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose; 
to Nor was a hair of her un]>lemislr d head 

Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower ungather d, 
And warm with life, her youthful pulses play- 
She was'^wall'd up within the Castle wall. (10) 
The wall itself was hollow' d to receive her; 
Then closed again, and done to hne and rule. 
Would you descend and see it ?— ' T is far down; 
And many a stair is gone. 'T is m a vault 
Under the Chapel : and there nightly now, 
As in the narrow niche, when smooth and iair, 
And as though nothing had been done or 

thought of, * 

The stone-work rose before her, till the hght 
Gliinmer'dand went— there, nightly, at that hour 
(You smile, and would it were an idle tale ! 
Would we could say so !) at that hour she stands 
Shuddering— her eyes uplifted, and her hands 
Join'd as in prayer ; then, like a Blessed Soul 
Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away 
Fhes o'er the woods, the mountains. Issuing 

forth, (11) . , 

The hunter meets her in his hunting track ; 
The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims 
(For still she bears the name she bore of old) 
"T is the White Lady' !" 





"1> 




44 ITAiiV. 

XI. 

VENICE. 

There is a glorious City in the Sea. 
Tiie sea is in tlie broad, the narrow streets, 
fcibbing and flowing ; and the salt sea-weed 
Chngs to the marble of her palaces. 
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, 
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea, 
Invisible ; and from the land we went, 
As to a flioating City — steering in. 
And gliding up her streets as in a dream, 
So smoothly, silently — by many a dome 
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico. 
The statues ranged along an azure sky ; 
By many a pile in more than Eastern splendour, 
Of old the residence of merchant-kings ; 
The fronts of some, though Time had shatter'd 

'them. 
Still glowing with the richest hues o^ art. 
As though the wealth within them had run o'er. 

Thither I came, and in a wondrous Ark, 
(That, long before we slipt our cable, rang 
As with the voices of all living things) 
From Padua, where the stars are, night by 

night, 
Watch'd from the top of an old dungeon-tower, 
Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezze- 

lln— (12) 
Not as he v.'atch'd them, when he read his fate 
And shudder'd. But of him I thought not then, 



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ITALV. 

Him or his horoscope ; far, far from me 

The forms of Guilt and Fear ; though some 

were there, 
Sitting among us round the cabin-board, 
Some who, hko him, had cried, " Spill blood 

enough !" 
And could shake long at shadows. They had 

play'd 
Their parts at Padua, and were now returning ; 
A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow, 
Careless and full of mirth. Who, in that quaver, 
Sings " Caro, Caro ?" — 'T is the Prima Donna, 
And to her monkey, smiling in his face, 
Who, as transported, cries, " Brava ! Ancora?" 
'T is a grave personage, an old macaw, 
Perch' d on her shoulder. But mark him who 

leaps 
Ashore, and with a shout urges along 
Tlie lagging mules ; (13) then runs and climbs a 

tree 
That with its branches overhangs the stream, 
And, like an acorn, drops on deck again. 
'T is he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh ; 
That child of fun and froliC; Arlecchino.(14) 
And mark their Poet — with what emphasis 
He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her 

part ! 
Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box, 
And prompts again ; for ever looking round 
As if in search of subjects for his wit. 
His satire ; and as often whispering 
Things, though unheard, not unimaginable. 



>^ 




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46 



ITALY 



Had I thy pencil, Crabbe, (when thou hast 

done, — 
Late may it be— it will, like Prospero's stafF, 
Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth), 
I would portray the Italian — Now I cannot. 
Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave 
Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes ; 
Gentle when unprovoked, easily won. 
But quick in quarrel — through a thousand shades 
His spirit flits, chameleon-like ; and mocks 
The eye of the observer. 

Gliding on, 
At length we leave the river for the sea. 
At length a voice aloft proclaims " Venezia !" 
And, as call'd forth, it comes. 

A few in fear, 
Flying away from him whose boast it was,* 
That tne grass grew not where his horse had 

trod. 
Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl, 
They built their nests among the ocean-waves ; 
And, where the sands were shifting, as the wind 
Blew from the north, the south; where- they 

that came. 
Had to make sure the ground they stood upon, 
Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep, 
A vast Metropolis, with glittering spires, 
With theatres, basilicas adorn' d ; 
A scene of light and glory, a dominion, 
That has endured the longest among men. 

* Aitila. 




Ml 





ITALY. 




And whence the talisman, by which she rose, 
Towering ? ' T was found there in the barren 

sea. 
Want led to Enterprise ; and, far or near, 
Who met not the Venetian ? — now in Cairo ; 
Ere yet the CaUfa came, (15) hstening to hear 
Its bells approaching from the Red-Sea coast ; 
Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph, 
In converse with the Persian, with the Russ, 
The Tartar ; on his lowly deck receiving 
Pearls from the gulf of Ormus, gems from 

Bagdad 
Eyes brighter yet; that shed the light of k)ve. 
From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering 

round. 
When in the rich bazaar he saw display'd, 
Treasure^ from unknown climes, away he 

went. 
And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere-long 
From the well-head, supplying all below ; 
Making the Imperial City of the East, 
Herself, his tributary. 

If we turn 
To the black forests of the Rhine, the Danube, 
Where o'er each narrow glen a castle hangs. 
And, like the wolf that hunger'd at his door. 
The baron lived by rapine — there we meet, 
In warUke guise, the Caravan from Venice; 
When on its march, now lost and now emerging, 
A glittering file, the trumpet heard, the scou* 
Sent and recall' d — but at a city-gate 
All gaiety, and look'd for ere it comes ; 




«^ 




ITALY. 

Winning its way witli all that can attract, 

whence every wild cry of the desert, 
Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charle- 

main, 
And his brave peers, each with his visor up 
On their long lances lean and gaze awhile, 
When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed 
The Wonders of the East ! Well might they 

then 
Sigh for new Conquests ! 

Thus did Venice rise 
Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came 
That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet 
P'rom India, from the region of the Sun, 
Fragrant with spices — that a way was found, 
A channel open'd, and the golden stream 
Turn'd to enrich another. Then she^elt 
Her strength departing, and at last she fell, 
Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed; 
She who had stood yet longer than the longest 
Of the Four Kingdoms — who, as in an Ark, 
Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks, 
Uninjured, from the Old World to the New, 
From the last trace of civilized life — to where 
Light shone again, and with unclouded splen- 
dour 

Though many an age in the mid-sea She 
dwelt. 
From her retreat calmly contemplating 
The changes of the Earth, herself unchanged. 
Before her pass'd, as in an awful dream, 



^^ 




M 








i-'^ 



ITALY 

The mightiest of the mighty What are these 
Clothed in their purple ? O'er the globe they 

Their m'onstrous shadows ; and, while yet we 

Phantom-Uk'e, vanish with a dreadful scream ! 
What^ut the last that styled themselves the 

Csesars ? , , u ♦!,«« 

And who in long array (look where they 

Their gestures menacing so far and wide) 
Wear the green turban and the heron's plume ? 
Who_butthe Caliphs? follow' d fast by shapes 
As new and strange^Emperor, and Kmg, and 

Czar, . . ^ -J 

And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride, 
TrampUna on all the flourishing works of peace 
To makeliis greatness greater, and mscribe 
His name in blood-some, men of steel, steel- 
clad ; , • 1 
Others, nor long, alas, the interval. 
In light and gay attire, with brow serene 
Wielding Jove's thunder, scattermg sulphurous 

Mingled'^ with darkness ; and, among the rest, 
' Lo, one by one, passing coritmually, ^ 

Those who assume a sway beyond them all , 
Men grey with age, each in a triple crown, 
And in his tremulous hands grasping the keya 
That can alone, as he would signify, 
« Unlock Heaven's gate. 



^V 



4 







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nil. 

LUIGI. 

He who is on his travels and loves ease, 
Ease and companionship, should hire a youth, 
Such as thou wert, Luigi. Thee I found. 
Playing at Mora (16) on the cabin-roof 
With Pulcinella — crying, as in wrath, 
" Tre ! Quattro ! Cinque!" — 't is a game to 

strike 
Fire from the coldest heart. What then from 

thine 
And, ere the twentieth throw, I had resolved. 
Won by thy looks. Thou wert an honest lad ; 
Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition. 
Had it depended on thy will and pleasure. 
Thou wouldst have numbered in thy family 
At least six Doges and twelve Procurators. (17) 
But that was not to be. In thee I saw 
The last of a long line of Carbonari, 
Who in their forest, for three hundred years. 
Had lived and labour' d, cutting, charring wood ; 
Discovering where they were, to those astray, 
By the re-echoing stroke, the crash, the fall, 
Or the blue wreath that travell'd slowly up 
Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies 
Led thee away to justle in the crowd ; 
And there I found thee — by thy own prescrip- 
tion 
Crossing the sea to try once more a change 
Of air and diet, landing and as gaily. 





^ 



ITALY. 



51 



Near the Dogana— on the Great Canal, 
As Ihough thou knewest where to dme and 
sleep. 

First did thou practise patience at Bologna, 
Serving behind a Cardinal's gouty chair, 
Langhaig at jests that were no laughing matter , 
Then teach the Art to others m Ferrara 
—At the Three Moors— as Guide, as Cice- 
rone — , . 
Dealincr out largely in exchange for pence 
Thy scmps of knowledge-through the grassy 

strGGt 
Leading, explaining-pointing to the bars 
Of Tasso's dungeon, and the Latin verse. 
Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the door 

Of Ariosto. 

Many a year ^s gone . 

Since on the Rhine we parted ; yet, methinks, 
I can recall thee to the life, Luigi ; 
In our long journey ever by my side, 
O'er rough and smooth, o'er apennine, marem- 

Thy lo'^ks' jet-black, and clustering round a face 
Open as day and full of manly daring. 
Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came. 
Herdsman or pedlar, monk or muleteer ; 
And few there were, that met thee not with 

smiles. , j 

Mishap pass'd o'er thee like a summer-cloud. 
Ca?es thou hadst none; and they, who stood to 

hear thee, 



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tti 




52 



ITALY. 




Caught the infection and forgot their own. 

Nature conceived thee in her merriest mood, 

Her happiest — not a speck was in the sky ; 

And at thy birth the cricket chirp'd, Luigi, 

Thine a perpetual voice — at every turn 

A larum to the echo. In a cUme, 

Where all the world was gay, thou wert the 

gayest, 
And, like a babe, hush'd only by thy slumbers, 
Up hill and down, morning and noon and night, 
Singing or talking ; singing to thyself 
When none gave ear, but to the listener talking. 

XIII. 

ST. MARK'S PLACE. 

Over how many tracts, vast, measureless, 
Nothing from day to day, from year to year. 
Passes, save now and then a cloud, a meteor, 
A famish 'd eagle ranging for his prey ; 
While on this spot of earth, the work of man, 
How much has been transacted ! Emperors, 

Popes, 
Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil, 
Landing, have here perform'd their several parts, 
Then left the stage to others. Not a stone 
In the broad pavement, but to him who has 
An eye, an ear for the Inanimate World, 
Tells of Past Ages. 

In that temple-porch 
(The brass is gone, the porphyry remains), (18) 
Did Barbarossa fling his mantle olf. 






>1* 



.41 



ITALY. 

And, kneeling, on his neck receive the foot 
Of the proud Pontiff (19)— thus at last consoled 
For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shake 
On his stone pillow. In that temple-porch, 
Old as he was, so near his hundredth year, 
And blind— his eyes put out— did Dandolo 
Stand forth, displaying on his ducal crown 
The cross just then assumed at the high altar. 
There did he stand, erect, invincible, 
Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many 

tears. 
For in his prayers he had been weeping much ; 
And now the pilgrims and the people wept 
With admiration, saying in their hearts, 
" Surely those aged limbs have need of rest !" 
—There did he stand, with his old armour on, 
Ere, gonfalon in hand, that stream'd aloft, 
As conscious of its glorious destiny ,_ 
So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret, 
He sail'd away, five hundred gallant ships. 
Their lofty sides hung with emblazon' d shields, 
Following his track to Glory. He returned not ; 
But of his trophies four arrived ere-long, 
Snatch' d from destruction — the four steeds di- 
vine, . 
That strike the ground, resounding with their 

feet. 
And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame 
Over that very portal — in the place 
Where in an after-time Petrarch was seen 
Sitting beside the Doge, on his right hand, 
Amid the ladies of the court of Venice, 







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P 





Their beauty shaded from the setting sun 
By many-colour'd hangings : while, beneath, 
Knights of all nations, some from merry En- 
gland, (20) 
Their lances in the rest, charged for the prize. 

Here, an^ong other pageants, and how oft 
It came, as if returning to console 
The least, instruct the greatest, did the Doge^ 
Himself, go round, borne through the gazing 

crowd. 
Once in a chair of state, once on his bier. 
They were his first appearance, and his last. 



The sea, that emblem of uncertainty. 
Changed not so fast for many and many an age, 
As this small spot. To-day 't was full of 

maskers ; 
And lo, the madness of the Carnival, (21) 
The monk, the nun, the holy legate mask'd ! 
To-morrow came the scaffold and the heads- 
man ; 

he died there by torch-light, bound and 
gagg'd, 
Whose name and crime they knew not. 

derneath 
Where the Archangel turning with the wind, 
Blesses the City from the topmost-tower. 
His arms extended — there continually 
Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side, 
Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other; 
Horror and Mirth. Both vanish' d in one hour ! 



Un- 



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ITALV. 

But Ocean only, when again lie claims 

His ancient rule, shall wash away their footsteps. 

Enter the Palace by the marble stairs* 
Down which the grizzly head ot old Faliero 
Roll'tt from the block. Pass onward through 

the Chamber, 
Where, among all drawn in their ducal robes, 
But one is wanting — where, throv/n off in heat, 
A short inscription on the Doge's chair 
Led to another on the wall yet shorter ; 
And thou wilt track them — wilt from halls of 

state 
Where kings have feasted, and the festal song 
Rung through the fretted roof, cedar and gold. 
Step into darkness ; and be told, " 'T was here. 
Trusting, deceived, assembled but to die, 
To take a long embrace and part again, 
Carrara and his valient sons were strangled ; 
He first — then they, whose only crime had been 
Struggling to save their father.' — Through that 

door 
So soon to cry, smiting his brow, "I'm lost !" 
Was shown, and with all courtesy, all honour, 
The great and noble captain, Carmagnola. — 
That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern 
Aught as it is) leads to the dripping vaults 
Under the flood, where light and warmth came 

never ! 
Jjeads to a cover'd Bridge, the Bridge of Sighs ; 
And to that fatal closet at the foot, 



♦ Scala de' Gigauti. 







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^: V 




if^ 



56 



ITALY. 



Lurking for prey, which, when a victim enter'd, 
Grew less and less, contracting to a span ; 
An iron door, urged onward by a screw, 
Forcing out Hfe. — But let us to the roof, 
And, when thou hast survey' d the sea, the land, 
Visit the narrow cells that cluster there. 
As in a place of tombs. They had their tenants, 
And each supplied with sufferings of his own. 
There burning suns beat unrelentingly. 
Turning all things to dust, and scorching up 
The brain, till Reason fled, and the wild yell 
And wilder laugh burst out on every side, 
Answering each other as in mockery ! 
— Few Houses of the size^were better fill'd ; 
Though many came and left it in an hour. 
" Most nights," so said the good old Nicolo 
(For three-and-thirty years his uncle kept 
The water-gate below, but seldom spoke, 
Though much was on his mind), " most nights 

arrived 
The prison-boat, that boat vrith many oars. 
And bore away as to the Lower World, 
Disburdening in the Canal Orfano, (22) 
That drowning-place, where never net was 

thrown. 
Summer or Winter, death the penalty ; 
And where a secret, once deposited. 
Lay till the waters should give up their dead." 

yet what so gay as Venice ? Every gale 
Breathed heavenly music ! and who flock'd not 
thither 





iH> 



1 



1 



tTAT-V. 57 

To celebrate her Nuptials with the Sea ? 
To wear the mask, and mingle in the crowd 
With Greek, Armenian, Persian— night and 

(There, and there only, did the hour standstill) 
Pursuing through her thousand labyrmths 
The Enchantress Pleasure ; realizing dreams 
The earliest, happiest— for a tale to catch 
(Credulous ears, and hold young hearts m chains, 
Had only to begin, " There lived in Venice. — 

" Who w-ere the Six we supp'd with yester- 
night?" 

"Kings, one and all! Thou couldst not but 
remark 

The style and manner of the Six that served 
them." 

" Who answer' d me just now ? Who, when 

I said, 
* 'T is nine,' turn'd round and said so solemnly, 
'Signor, he died at nine!'"— '"T was the 

Armenian ; 
The mask that follows thee, go where thou 

v/ih." 

"But who stands there, alone among them 
all?" 
" The Cypriot. Ministers from foreign courts 
Beset his doors, long ere his hour of rising ; 
His the Great Secret ! Not the golden hou.se 
Of Nero, or those fabled in the East, 





ITALY. 

As wrought by magic, half so rich as his ! 
Two dogs, coal-black, in collars of pure gold, 
Walk in his footsteps — Who but his familiars ? 
He casts no shadow, nor is seen to smile !" 

Such their discourse. Assembling in St. 

Mark's, 
All Nations met as on enchanted ground ! 



What though a strange, mysterious Power 

was there, 
Moving throughout, subtle, invisible. 
And universal as the air they breathed ; 
A Power that never slumber' d, never pardon' d, 
All eye, all ear, nowhere and everywhere, C23) 
Entering the closet and the sanctuary, 
No place of refuge for the Doge himself; 
Most present when least thought of — nothing 

dropt 
In secret, when the heart was on the lips. 
Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly 
Observed and judged — a Power, that if but 

glanced at 
In casual converse, be it where it might. 
The speaker lower'd at once his eyes, his voice, 
And pointed upward, as to God in Heaven — 
What though that Power was there, he who 

lived thus, 
Pursuing Pleasure, lived as if it were not. 
But let him in the midnight-air indulge 
A word, a thought against the laws of Venice, 
And in that hour he vanish' d from the earth ! 



.V 





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K> 




ITALY. 

XIV. 
THE GONDOLA. 

Boy, call the Gondola ; the sun is set. 
It came, and we embark'd; but instantly, 
Though she had stept on board so light of foot, 
So hght of heart, laughing she knew not why, 
Sleep overcame her ; on ray arm she slept. 
From time to time I waked her ; but the boat 
Rock'd her to sleep again. 

The moon was up, 
But broken by a cloud. The wind was hush'd, 
And ihe sea mirror-like. A single zephyr 
Play'd with her tresses, and drew more and 

more 
Her veil across her bosom. 

Long I lay 
Contemplating that face so beautiful, 
That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with 

smiles, 
That neck but half-concealed, whiter than snow. 
'T was the sweet slumber of her early age. 
I look'd and look'd, and felt a flush of joy 
I would express, but cannot. 

Oft I wish'd 
Gently — by stealth — to drop asleep myself, 
And to incline yet lower that sleep might come ; 
Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness. 
'T was all in vain. Love would not let me rest. 

But how delightful when at length she waked I 
When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil 




i--f^ 




ft 



^ 




ITALY. 

So rudely scatter'd, she resumed her place 
Beside me; and, as gaily as before, 
Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer, 
Pour'd out her innocent mind ! 

So, nor long since, 
Sung a Venetian : and his lay of love. 
Dangerous and sweet, charm'd Venice. As 

for me 
(Less fortunate, if Love be Happiness) 
No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm, 
1 went alone under the silent moon ; 
Thy place, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces, 
Glittering, and frost-like, and as day drew on, 
Melting away, an emblem of themselves. 

Those porches pass'd through which the 
water-breeze 
Plays, though no longer on the noble forms 
That moved there, sable-vested — and the Quay, 
Silent, grass-grown — adventurer-like I launch'd 
Into the deep, ere- long discovering 
Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas. 
All verdure. Everywhere, from bush and brake. 
The musky odour of the serpents came ; 
Their slimy track across the woodman's path 
Bright in the moonshine : and, as round I went, 
Dreaming of Greece, whither the waves were 

gliding, 
I listen'd to the venerable pines 
Then in close converse ; and, if right I guess'd, 
Delivering many a message to the Winds 
In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida. 



m 
I- 1l' 



m 





:^ 



ITALY. 



61 



Nor when again in Venice, when again 
In that strange place, so stirrnig and so still, 
Where nothing comes to drown the human 

voice . r 1 ^•;i 

But music, or the dashing ot the tide. 
Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica 
Sunc^ to her lute, her signal as she sate 
At her half-open window. Then, methought, 
A serenade broke silence, breathing hope 
Through walls of stone, and torturing the proud 

heart 
Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err, 
(It was before an old Palladian house, 
As between night and day we floated by), 
A Gondoher lay singing ; and he sung 
A« in the time when Venice was herseit, U-1) 
Of Tancr'^d and Erminia. On our oars 
We rested ; and the verse was verse divine ! 
We could not en— Perhaps he was the last— 
For none took up the strain, none answer d him ; 
And when he ceased, he left upon my ear 
A something like the dying voice of Venice. 

The moon went down ; and nothing now was 

seen 
Save here and there the lamp of a Madonna, 
Glimmering— or heard, but when he spoke, 

who stood 
Over the lantern at the prow, and cried. 
Turning the corner of some reverend pile, 
Some school or hospital of old renown, 



-^\ 




l^Q 



"S 



^ 



ITALY. 

Though haply none were coming, none were 

near, 
*' Hasten or slacken." * 

But at length Night fled ; 
And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Plea- 
sure. 
Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like. 
Cross' d me and vanish' d — lost at once among 
Those hundred Isles that tower majestically, 
That rise abruptly from the water-mark. 
Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work 
Of noblest architects. I linger'd still ; 
Nor struck my threshold, till the hour was come 
And past, when, flitting home in the grey light, 
The young Bianca found her father's door, (25) 
That door so often with a trembling hand, 
So often — then so lately left ajar. 
Shut ; and, all terror, all perplexity. 
Now by her lover urged, now by her love, 
Fled o'er the waters to return no moie. 

XV. 
THE BRIDES OF VENICE. 

It was St. Mary's Eve, and all pour'd forth 
As to some grand solemnity. The fisher 
Came from his islet, bringing o'er the waves 
His wife and little one ; the husbandman 
From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta, 
Crowding the common ferry. A 11 arrived ; 

* Premi osta. 



K 



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And in his straw the prisoner turn'd and listen' d, 
So great the stir in Venice. Old and young 
Throng' d her three hundred bridges ; the grave 

Turk, 
Turban'd, long-vested, and the cozening Jew, 
In yellow hat and threadbare gaberdine, 
Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, 
The noblest sons and daughters of the State, 
They of Patrician birth, the llower of Venice, 
Whose names are written in the Book of Gold, 
Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials. 



At 



distant murmur through the 




noon, a 
crowd. 
Rising and rolling on, announced their coming ; 
And never from the first was to be seen 
Such splendour or such beauty. Two and two 
(The richest tapestry unroll' d before them). 
First came the Brides in all their loveliness ; 
Each in her veil, and by two bride-maids fol- 
low' d, 
Only less lovely, who behind her bore 
The precious caskets that within contain' d 
The dowry and the presents. On she moved, 
Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand 
A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-feathers. 
Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, 
Fell from beneath a starry diadem ; 
And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone. 
Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst ; 
A Jewell' d chain, in many a winding wreath, 
Wreathing her gold brocade 



'<r\ 



r%. 






,H 






bi ITALY. 

Before the Church, 
That venerable Pile on the sea-brink, 
Another train they met, no strangers to them, 
Brothers to some, and to the rest still dearer; 
Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume, 
And, as he walk'd, with modest dignity 
Folding his scarlet mantle, his tabarro. 

They join, they enter in, and, up the aisle 
Led by the full-voiced choir in bright proces- 
sion, 
Range round the altar. In his vestments there 
The Patriarch stands ; and, while the anthem 

flows, 
Who can look on unmoved ? — mothers in secret 
Rejoicing in the beauty of their daughters, 
Sons in the thought of making them their own ; 
And they — array'd in youth and innocence. 
Their beauty heighten' d by their hopes and 
fears. 




At length the rite is ending. All tall down 
In earnest prayer, all of all ranks together ; 
And, stretching out his hands, the holy man 
Proceeds to give the general benediction; 
When hark, a din of voices from without 
And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle 
And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent, 
And armed ruffians, robbers trom the deep. 
Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbarigo, 
And his six brothers in their coats of steel, 
Are standing on the threshold ! Statue-like, 



J 



r 



ITALY. 65 

Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude, 
Each with his sabfc up, in act to strike ; 
Then, as at once recovering from the spell, 
Rush forward to the altar, and as soon 
Are gone again — amid no clash of arms 
Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. 

Where are they now ? — plowing the distant 

waves 
Their sails all set, and they upon the deck 
Standing triumphant. To the east they go, 
Steering for Istria ; their accursed barks 
(Well are they known, the galliot and the 

galley). 
Freighted with all that gives to life its value ! 
The richest argosies were poor to them ! 

Now might you see the matrons running wild 
Along the beach ; the men balf-arm'd and 

arming, 
One with a shield, one with a casque and spear; 
One with an axe hewing the mooring-chain 
Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, 
But on that day was drifting. In an hour 
Half Venice was afloat. But long before. 
Frantic with grief and scorning all control, 
The youths were gone in a light brigantine, 
Lying at anchor near the Arsenal ; 
Each having sworn, and by the holy rood, 
To slay or to be slain. 

And from the tower 
' The watchman gives the signal. In the East 
5 



66 



ITALY. 



A ship is seen, and making for the Port ; 

Her flag St. Mark's. — And now she turns the 

point, 
Over the waters hke a sea-bird flying ! 
Ha, 't is the same, 't is theirs ! from stern to 

prow 
Hung with green boughs, she comes, she comes, 

restoring 
All that was lost. 

Coasting, with naiTow search, 
Friuli — like a tiger in his spring, 
They had surprised the Corsairs where they lay 
Sharing the spoil in blind security 
And casting lots — had slain them, one and all, 
All to the last, and flung them far and wide 
Into the sea, their proper element ; 
Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long 
Had hush'd the babes of Venice, and who yet, 
Breathing a little, in his look rc«fain'd 
The fierceness of his soul. 

Thus were the Brides 
Lost and recover' d ; and what now remain' d 
But to give thanks ? Twelve breast plates and 

twelve crowns, 
Flaming with gems and gold, the votive offer- 
ings 
Of the young victors to their Patron-Saint, 
Vow'd on the field of battle, were ere-long 
Laid at his feet ; (26) and to preserve for ever 
The memory of a day so full of change. 
From joy to grief, from grief to joy again, 
Through many an age, as oft as it came round, 



^^ 



hb 



1^. 




ITALY. 



67 



was held religiously with all observance. 
The Doge resigu'd his crimson for pure ermine; 
And through the city in a stately barge 
Of gold, were borne, with songs and sympho- 
nies. 
Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they 

were 
In bridal white with bridal ornaments, 
Each in her glittering veil ; and on the deck, 
As on a burnish' d throne, they glided by ; 
No window or balcony but adorn'd 
With hangings of rich texture, not a roof 
But cover'd with beholders, and the air 
Vocal with joy. Onward ihey went, their oars 
Moving in concert with the harmony, 
Through the Rialtoto the Ducal Palace, 
And at a banquet there, served with due honour, 
Sate representing, in the eyes of all. 
Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears, 
Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice. 

XVI. 

FOSCARI. 

Let us lift up the curtain, and observe, 
What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh, 
And now a groan, is heard. Then all is still. 
Twenty are sitting as in judgment there ; 
Men who have served their country, and grown 

grey 
In governments and distant embassies, 
Men eminent ahke in war and peace ; 



68 



ITALY. 



w. 



Such as in effigy shall long adorn 

The walls of Venice — to show what she has 

been ! 
Their garb is black, and black the arras is, 
And sad the general aspect. Yet their looks 
Are calm, are cheerful ; nothing there like grief, 
Nothing or harsh or cruel. Still that noise, 
That low and dismal moaning. 

Half withdrawn, 
A little to the left, sits one in crimson, 
A venerable man, fourscore and upward. 
Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrow'd brow. 
His hands are clench' d; his eyes half-shut and 

glazed ; 
His shrunk and wither' d limbs rigid as marble. 
'T is Foscari, the Doge. And there is one, 
A young man, lying at his feet, stretch'd out 
In torture. 'T is his son, his only one ; 
'T is Giacomo, the blessing of his age, 
(Say, has he lived fur this ?) accused of murder, 
The murder of the Senator Donato. 
Last night the proofs, if proofs they are, were 

dropt 
Into the lion's mouth, the mouth of brass, 
That gapes and gorges ; and the Doge himself 
Must sit and look on a beloved Son 
Suffering the Question. 

Twice, to die in peace 
To save a falling house, and turn the hearts 
Of his fell Adversaries, those who now, 
Like hell-hounds in full cry, are running down 
His last of four, twice did he ask their leave 



\1 



f^. 



«r^ 





ITALY. 

To lay aside the Crown, and they refused him, 

An oath exacting, never more to ask it ; 

And there he sits, a spectacle of woe, 

By them, his rivals in the State, compell'd, 

Such the refinement of their cruelty, 

To keep the place he sigh'd for. 

Once again 
The screw is turn'd ; and, as it turns, the Son 
Looks up, and, in a faint and broken accent, 
Murmurs "My Father ! ' ' The old man shrinks 

back 

And in his mantle muffles up his face. 
' Art thou not guilty ?" says a voice, that once 
Would greet the Sufferer long before they met, 
And on his ear strike hke a pleasant music — 
" Art thou not guilty ?"— " No ! Indeed I am 

not!" 
But all is unavailing. In that Court 
Groans are confessions; Patience, Fortitude, 
The work of Magic; and, released, upheld. 
For Condemnation, from his Father's lips 
He hears the sentence, " Banishment to Candia : 
Death, if he leaves it." 

And the bark sets sail ; 
And he is gone from all he loves — for ever ! 
His wife, his boys, and his disconsolate parents ! 
Gone in the dead of night — unseen of any 
Without a word, a look of tenderness. 
To be call'd up, when, in his lonely hours 
He would indulge in weeping. 

Like a ghost, 
Day after day, year afler year, he haunts 




W' 




fy 



^ 



ro 



ITALY. 



1 



An ancient ranapart, that o'erhangs the sea; 
Gazing on vacancy, and hourly starting 

To answer to the watch Alas, how changed 

From him, the mirror of the Youth of Venice, 
In whom the shghtest thing, or whim or chance, 
Did he but wear his doublet so and so, 
All follow' d ; at whose nuptials, when at length 
He won that maid at once the fairest, noblest, (27) 
A daughter of the House of Contarini, 
That House as old as Venice, now among 
Its ancestors in monumental brass 
Numbering eight Doges — to convey her home, 
The Bucentaur went forth ; and thrice the Sun 
Shone on the Chivalry, that, front to front, 
And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged 
To tournay in St. Mark's. 

But lo, at last. 
Messengers come. He is recall' d : his heart 
Leaps at the tidings. He embarks ; the boat 
Springs to the oar, and back again he goes — 
Into that very Chamber ! there to lie 
In his old resting-place, the bed of torture ; 
And thence look up (five long, long years of 

Grief 
Have not killed either) on his wretched Sire, 
Still in that seat — as though he had not left it, 
Immovable, enveloped in his mantle. 

But now he comes, convicted of a crime 
Great by the laws of Venice. Night and day, 
Brooding on what he had been, what he was, 
' T was more than he could bear. His longing fits 



M 



/^/ 



^ 



^ 



ITALY. 



71 



[T 



"t 



Thicken'd upon him. His desire for home 

Became a madness ; and, resolved to go, 

If but to die, in his despair he writes 

A letter to Francesco, Duke of Milan, 

Soliciting his influence with the State, 

And drops it to be found. — " Would ye know 

all? .^ 

I have transgress' d, offended wilfully ; (28) ^5^ 

And am prepared to suffer as 1 ought. 
But let me, let me, if but for an instant 
(Ye must consent — for all of you are sons, 
Most of you husbands, fathers), let me first 
Indulge the natural feelings of a man, 
And, ere I die, if such my sentence be, 
Press to my heart ('t is all I ask of you) 
My wife, my children — and my aged mother- 
Say, is she yet alive ?" 

He is condemn' d 
To go ere set of sun, go whence he came, 
A banish' d man — and for a year to breathe 
The vapour of a dungeon. — But his prayer 
(What could they less ?) is granted. 

In a hall 
Open and crowded by the common rabble, 
'T was there a trembling Wife and her four Sons 
Yet young, a Mother, borne along, bedridden, ^ 

And an old Doge, mustering up all his strength, ^^ ' 

That strength how small 1 assembled now to 

meet 
One so long lost, long mourn' d, one who for them 
Had braved so much — death, and yet worse than 

death — 



,^ 




72 ITALY. 

To meet him, and to part with him for ever ! 

Time and their heavy wrongs had changed 

them all ; 
Him most ! Yet when the Wife, the Mother 

look'd 
Again, 't was he himself, 't was Giacomo, 
Their only hope, and trust, and consolation ! 
And all clung round him, weeping bitterly; 
Weeping the more, because they wept in vain. 

Unnerved, unsettled in his mind from long 
And exquisite pain, he sobs aloud and cries 
Kissing the old man's cheek, " Help me, my 

Father ! 
Let me, I pray thee, live once more among you : 
Let me go home." — "My Son," returns the 

Doge, 
Mastering awhile his grief, " if I may still 
Call thee my Son, if thou art innocent, 
As I would fain believe," but, as he speaks, 
He falls, " submit without a murmur." 

Night, 
That to the World brought revelry, to them 
Brought only food for sol-row. Giacomo 
Embark'd — to die ; sent to an early grave 
For thee, Erizzo, whose death-bed confession, 
"He is most innocent ! 'T was I who did it !" 
Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that 

sail'd 
Swift as the winds with his recall to Honour, 
Bore back a lifeless corse. Generous as brave 





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A 



ITALY. 

Affection, kindness, the sweet offices 
Of love and duty, were to him as needful 
As was his daily bread ; — and to become 
A byword in the meanest mouths of Venice, 
Bringing a stain on those who gave him life, 
On those, alas, now worse than fatherless — 
To be proclaim'd a ruffian, a night-stabber, 
He on whom none before had breathed re- 
proach — 
He lived but to disprove it. That hope lost. 
Death foUow'd. From the hour he went, he 

spoke not ; 
And in his dungeon, when he laid him down, 
He sunk to rise no more. Oh, if there be 
Justice in Heaven, and we are assured there is, 
A day must come of ample Retribution ! 

Then was thy cup, old Man, full to o'erflowing. 
But thou wert yet alive ; and there was one. 
The soul and spring of all that Enmity, 
Who would not leave thee ; fastening on thy 

flank, 
Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied ; 
One of a name illustm^us as thine own ! 
One of the Ten \ one of the Invisible Three ! (29) 
'T was Loredano. 

When the whelps were gone. 
He would dislodge the Lion from his den ; 
And, leading on the pack he long had led, 
The miserable pack that ever howl'd 
Against fallen Greatness, moved that Foscari 
Be Doge no longer ; urging his great age. 



¥\ 



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fe^ 






'Vf: 





ITALY. 



His incapacity and nothingness ; 

Calling a Father's sorrows in his chamber 

Neglect of duty, anger, contumacy. 

" I am most willing to retire," said Foscari: 

" But T have sworn, and cannot of myself 

Do with me as ye please." 

He was deposed, 
He, who had reign' d so long and gloriously ; 
His ducal bonnet taken from his brow, 
His robes stript ofl', his ring, that ancient symbol, 
Broken before him. But now nothing moved 
The meekness of his soul. All things alike ! 
Among the six that came with the decree, 
Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired 
His name. " I am the son of Marco Memrno." 
'' Ah," he repUed, " thy father was my friend." 

And now he goes. " It is the hour and past. 
I have no business here." — " But wilt thou not 
Avoid the gazing crowd ? That way is private." 
" No ! as I enter' d, so will I retire." 
And, leaning on his staff, he left the Palace, 
His residence for four-and-thirty years. 
By the same staircase hfjpame up in splendour. 
The staircase of the Giants. Turning round, 
When in the court below, he stopt and said 
" My merits brought me hither. I depart. 
Driven by the malice of my Enemies." 
Then through the crowd withdrew, poor as ne 

came 
And in his gondola went off, unfoLovv'd 
But by the sighs of them that dared not speak. 






I 



\'^ 





ITALY. 

This journey was his last, 
rang 
Next day, announcing a new Doge to Venice, 
It found him on his knees before the aUar, 
Clasping his aged hands in earnest prayer ; 
And there he died. Ere half its task was done. 
It rang his knell. 

But whence the deadly hate 
That caused all this— the hate of Loredano ? 
It was a legacy his Father left him, 
Who, but for Foscari, had reign' d in Venice, 
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag, 
Gather'd and grew! Nothing but turn'd to 

venom ! 
In vain did Foscari sue for peace, for friendship, 
Offering in marraige his fair Isabel. 
He changed not ; with a dreadful piety. 
Studying revenge ! listening alone to those 
Who talk'd of vengeance ; grasping by the hand 
Those in their zeal (and none, alas, were want- 
ing) 
Who came to tell him of another Wrong, 
Done or imagined. When his father died, 
•T was whisper' d in his ear, "He died by 

poison !" 
He wrote it on the tomb ('t is there in marble) 
And in his ledger-book — among his debt 

ors — 
Enter'd the name " Francesco Foscari," 
And added, " For the murder of my Father." 
Leaving a blank — to be fill'd up hereafter. 
When Foscari' s noble heart at length gave way, 






w^fk: 



^<SSji*i 




ITALY. 



He took the volume from the shelf again 
Calmly, and with his pen fiU'd up the blank, 
Inscribing, " He has paid me." 

Ye who sit, 
Brooding from day to day, from day to day 
Chewing the bitter cud, and starting up 
As though the hour was come to whet your 

fangs, 
And, like the Pisan,* gnaw the hairy scalp 
Of him who had offended — if ye must, 
Sit and brood on ; but oh ! forbear to teach 
The lesson to your children. 

xvn. 

ARQUA. 

There is, within three leagues and less of 
Padua 
(The Paduan student knows it, honours it), 
A lonely tomb-stone in a mountain-churchyard , 
And I arrived there as this sun declined 
Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe 
Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds 
Singing their farewell song — the very song 
They sung the night that tomb received a 

tenant ; 
When, as alive, clothed in his Canon's habit, 
And, slowly winding down the narrow path 
He cume to rest there. Nobles of the land, 
Princes and prelates mingled in his train. 
Anxious by any act, while yet they could, 

* Count Ugolino, 




n 



% 



i^ 




I'i'ALY. 

To catch a ray of glory by reflection ; 

And from that hour have kindred spirits flock'd 

From distant countries, from the north, the 

south, 
To see where he is laid. 

Twelve years ago, 
When I descended tlie impetuous Rhone, 
Its vineyards of such great and old renown, 
Its castles, each with some romantic tale, 
Vanishing fast — the pilot at the stern. 
He who had steer' d so long, standing aloft, 
His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands 
On what at once served him for oar and rudder, 
A huge inisshapen plank — the bark itself 
Frail and uncouth, launch'd to return no more. 
Such as a shipwreck' d man might hope to build, 
Urged by the love of home — when I descended 
Two long, long days' silence, suspense onboard, 
It was to offer at thy fount, Valclusa, 
Entering the arched Cave, to'wander where 
Petrarch had wander' d, in a trance to sit 
Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit. 
Musing, reciting — on some rock moss-grown, 
Or the fantastic root of some old fig tree, 
That drinks the living waters as they stream 
Over their emerald-bed ; and could I now 
Neglect to visit Arqua, (30) where, at last. 
When he had done and settled with the world, 
When all the illusions of his Youth were fled. 
Indulged perhaps too long, cherish' d too fondly, 
He came for the conclusion ? Half-way up 






m 



.d 





ITALY. 

He built his house, (31) whence as by stealth 

he caught 
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life, 
That soothed, not stirr'd. — But knock, and en- 
ter in. 
This was his chamber. 'T is as when he left it ; 
As if he now were busy in his garden. 
And this his closet. Here he sate and read. 
This was his chair ; and in it, unobserved, 
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends, 
He pass'd away as in a quiet slumber. 

Peace to this region ! Peace to all who dwell 

here : 
They know his value — every coming step, 
That gathers round the children from their play, 
Would tell them if they knew not. — But could 

aught. 
Ungentle or ungenerous, spring up 
Where he is sleeping ; where, and in aa age 
Of savage warfare and blind bigotry, 
He cultured all that could refine, exalt ; 
Leading to better things ? 

xvni. 

GINEVRA. 

If ever you should come to Modena, 
Where among other trophies may be seen 
Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs. 
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), 





Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gatC; 
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini, 
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, 
Will long detain you — but, before you go, 
Enter the house — forget it not, I pray — 
And look awhile upon a picture there. 

'T is a Lady in her earliest youth. 
The last of that illustrious family ; 
Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care not. 
He, who observes it — ere he passes on. 
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, 
That he may call it up, when far away. 

She sits, inclining forward as to speak. 
Her lips half-open, and her finger up. 
As though she said "Beware!" her vest of 

gold 
Broider'd with flowers, and clasp' d from head 

to foot. 
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ; 
And on her brow, fai#r than alabaster, 
A coronet of pearls. 

But then her face. 
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. 
The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, 
Like some wild melody ! 

Alone it hangs 
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion, 
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm, 







«^ 



ITALY. 

But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
With scripture-stores from the Life of Christ; 
A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor — 
That by the way — it may be true or false — 
But don't forget the picture ; and you will not, 
When you have heard the tale they told me 
there. 

She was an only child — her name Ginevra, 
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Father ; 
And in her fifteenth year became a bride, 
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
She was all gentleness, all gaiety, 
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. 
But now the day was come, the day, the hour; 
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time. 
The nurse, that ancient lady, preach' d decorum ; 
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
Her hand, with her hearPin it, to Francesco. 

Great was the joy ; but at the Nuptial Feast, 
When all sate down, the Bride herself was 

wanting. 
Nor was she to be found ! Her Father cried, 
" 'T is but to make a trial of our love !" 
And fiU'd his glass to all ; but his hand shook, 
And soon fiom guest to guest the panic spread. 
' T was but that instant she had left Francesco, 




^^^&^ 










P 



^PC^rm 



ITALV. 

Laughing and looking back, and flying still, 
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. 
But now, alas, she was not to be found ; 
Nor from that hour could anything be guess' d, 
But that she was not ! 

Weary of his life, 
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, 
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
Orsini lived — and long might you have seen 
An old man wandering as in quest of something, 
Something he could not find — he knew not 

what. 
When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 



Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, 

When on an idle daji^, a day of search 

'Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, 

That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 't was 

said 
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 
" Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?" 
' T was done as soon as said ; but on the way 
It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, 
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, 
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
All else had perish' d — save a wedding-ring, 
And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
Engraven with a name, the name of both, 
" Ginevra." 

There then had she found a grave ! 
Within that chest had she conceal' d herself, 
6 










Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; 
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, 
Fasten' d her down for ever ! 

XIX. 

BOLOGNA. 

'T WAS night ; the noise and bustle of the day 
Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought 
Miraculous cures — he and his stage were gone ; 
And he who, when the crisis of his tale 
Came, and all stood breathless with hope and 

fear 
Sent round his cap ; and he who thrumm'd his 

wire 
And sang, with pleading look and plaintive 

strain 
Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries,* 
So well portray'd and by a son of thine, 
Whose voice had swell' d the hubbub in his 

youth. 
Were hush'd, Bologna ; silence in the streets, 
The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet 

hoofs ! 
And soon a courier, posting as from far, 
Housing and holster, boot and belted coat 
And doublet, stain' d with many a various soil, 
Stopt and alighted. 'T was where hangs aloft 

* See the Cries of Bologna, as dnvvvn by Annioal Car. 
racci. He was of very humble origin; and, lo correct his 
brother's vanity, once sent him a p rtrait of their fether, 
the tailor, threading his needle. 






^i 




I 




a 



rf 



ITALY. 






That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming 
All who arrive there, all perhaps save those 
Clad like himself, with statFand scallop-shell, 
• Those on a pilgrimage : and now approach' d 
Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding, 
Arch be5^ond arch, a shelter or a shade 
As the sky changes. To the gate they came ; 
And. ere the man had half his story done, 
Mine host received the Master — one long used 
To sojourn among strangers, everywhere 
(Go where he would, along the wildest track) 
Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, 
And leaving footsteps to be traced by those 
Who love the haunts of Genius ; one who saw, 
Observed, nor shunn'd the busy scenes of life, 
But mingled not, and, 'mid the din, the stir, 
Lived as a separate Spirit. 

Much had pass'd 
Since last we parted; and those five short 

years — 
Much had they told ! 

were turn'd 
Grey; Nor did aught recall the Youth that 

swam 
From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice. 
Still it was sweet ; still from his eye the thought 
Flash'd lightning-hke, nor linger'd on the way, 
Waiting for words. Far, far into the night 
We sate, conversing — no unwelcome hour. 
The hour we met ; and, when Aurora rose. 
Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine. 



His clustering locks 



m 



'k 







l^*s^ 






^ 



f 



ITALY. 

Well I remember how the golden sun 
I'ill'd with its beams the unfathomable gulfs, 
As on vve travell'd, and along the ridge, 
'Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild fig, 
His motley household came — Not last nor least, 
Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea 
Of Venice, had so ably, zealously 
Served, and, at parting, flung his oar away 
To follow through the world ; who without stain 
Had worn so long that honourable badge,* 
The gondolier's, m a Patrician House 
Arguing unlimited trust. — Not last nor least, 
Thou, though declining in thy beauty and 

strength, 
Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour 
Guarding his chamber-door, and now along 
The silent, sullen strand of Missolonghi 
Howling in grief. 

He had just left that place 
Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,t 
Ravenna; where, from Dante's sacred tomb 
He had so oft, as many ji verse declares, J 
Drawn inspiration ; where, at twiUght time, 
Through the pine-forest wandering with loose 

rein, 
Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld II 

* The principal gondolier, il fante dl poppa, waa almost 
always in the confidence of liis master, and employed on 
occasions thai required judgment and address. 

t Adrianum mare.— CVc. % See the Prophecy of Dante, 
See the tale as told by Boccaccio and Dry den. 








ITALY. 

(What is not visible to a Poet's eye ?) 

The spectre-kniglit, the hell-hounds, and their 

prey, 
The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth 
Suddenly blasted. 'T was a theme he loved, 
But others claim'd their turn ; and many a 

tower, 
Shatter'd, uprooted from its native rock, 
Its strength the pride of some heroic age, 
Appear'd and vanish'd (many a sturdy steer * 
Yoked and unyoked), while as in happier days 
He pour'd his spirit forth. The past forgot, 
All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured 
Present or future. 

He is now at rest ; 
And praise and blame fall on his ear alike, 
Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone, 
Gone like a star that through the firmament 
Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course 
Dazzhng, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks, 
Was generous, noble — noble in its scorn 
Of all things low or little ; nothing there 
Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs 
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do 
Things long regretted, oft, as many know, 
None more than I, thy gratitude would build 
On slight foundations: and, if in thy life 
Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert. 
Thy wish accomplished ; dying in the land 



♦ They wait for the traveller's carriage at the foot of 
every hill. 




»r^. 




^/ 




^\ 



86 ITALY. 

Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire, 
Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious '- 

They in thy train — ah, little did they think, 
As round we went, that they so soon should sit 
Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourn'd, 
Changing her festal for her funeral song ; 
That they so soon should hear the minute-gun, 
As morning gleam'd on what remain'd of thee, 
Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering 
Thy years of joy and sorrow. 

Thou art gone ; 
And he who would assail thee in thy grave, 
Oh, let him pause ! For who among us all, 
Tried as thou wert — even from thine earliest 

years ; 
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland boy^ 
Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame ; 
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, 
UpHfting. pressing, and to lips Uke thine 
Her charmed cup — ah, who among us all 
Could say he had not err'd as much, and more ? 

XX. 

FLORENCE. 

Of all the fairest cities of the earth 
None are so fair as Florence. 'T is a gem 
Of purest ray, a treasure for a casket ! 
And what a glorious lustre did it shed, 
When it emerged from darkness! Search 
within, 



V 



\\ 



\'X.^ ' 



r^ 



.^tH 



.^ 



j~ 



^ 



ITALY. 




87 



Without, all is enchantment ! ' T is the past 
Contending with the present ; and in turn 
Each has the mastery. 

In this chapel wrought (32) 
Massaccio ; and he slumbers underneath. 
Wouldst thou behold his monument? Look 

round ! 
And know that where we stand, stood oft and 

long 
Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself, 
He and his haughty Rival — patiently, 
Humbly, to learn of those who came before, 
To steal a spark from their authentic fire. 
Theirs, who first broke the gloom, Sons of the 

Morning, 



There, on the seat that runs along the wall, 
South of the Church, east of the belfry-tower 
(Thou canst not miss it), in the sultry time 
Would Dante sit conversing, and with those 
Who little thought that in his hand he held 
The balance, and assign' d at his good pleasure 
To each his place in the invisible world. 
To some an upper, some a lov^er region ; 
Reserving in his secret mind a niche 
For thee, Saltrello, who with quirks of law 
Hadst plagued him sore, and carefully requi- 
ting 
Such as ere-long condemn'd his mortal pari 
To fire. (33) Sit down awhile— -^hen by the 

gates 
Wondrously wrought, so beautiful, so glorious, 



V 



^■^ 



c 





88 ITALY. 

That ihey might serve to be the gates of Heaven, 
Enter the Baptistery. That place he loved, 
Calling it his ! And in his visits there 
Well might he take delight ! 1 or, when a child, 
Playing, with venturous feet, near and yet 

nearer 
One of the fonts, fell in, he flew and saved him, 
Flew with an energy, a violence, 
That broke the marble — a mishap ascribed 
To evil motives ; his, alas ! to lead 
A life of trouble, and ere-long to leave 
All things most dear to him, ere-long to know 
How salt another's bread is, and how toilsome 
The going up and down another's stairs. 

Nor then forget the Chamber of the Dead, (34) 
Where the gigantic forms of Night and Day, 
Turn'd into stone, rest everlastingly, 
Yet still are breathing ; and shed round at noon 
A two-fold infl\ience — only to be felt — 
A light, a darkness, mingled each with each ; 
Both and yet neither. There, from age to age. 
Two Ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres. 
That is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well. (35) 
He meditates, his head upon his hand. 
What scowls beneath his broad and helm-like 

bonnet ? 
Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull ? 
'T is hid in shade ; yet, like the basilisk. 
It fascinates, and is intolerable. 
His mien is noble, most majestical ! 
Then most so, when the distant choir is heard, 





^*^ 



ITALY. 



89 



At morn or eve — nor fail thou to attend 
On that thrice-liallow'd day, when all are there ; 
When all, propitiating with solemn songs, 
With light, and frankincense, and holy water, 
Visit the Dead. Then wilt thou feel his power ! 

But let not Sculpture, Painting, Poesy, 
Or they, the masters of these mighty spells. 
Detain us. Our first homage is to Virtue. 
Where, in what dungeon of the Citadel, 
(It must be known — the writing on the wall (36) 
Cannot be gone — 't was cut in with his dagger, 
Ere, on his knees to God, he slew himself). 
Where, in what dungeon, did Filippo Strozzi, 
The last, the greatest of the Men of Florence, 
Breathe out his soul — lest in his agony. 
When on the rack and call'd upon to answer. 
He might accuse the guiltless. 

That debt paid, 
But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty. 
We may return, and once more give a loose 
To the delighted spirit — worshipping, 
In her small temple of rich workmanship,* 
Venus herself, who, when she left the skies 
Came hither. 

XXI. 

DON GARZIA. 

Among the awful forms that stand assembled 
In the great square of Florence, may be seen 

* The Tribune. 




ITALV. 



That Cosmo, (37) not the Father of his Country, 

Not he so styled, but he who play'd the tyrant. 

Clad in rich armour like a paladin, 

But with his helmet off — in kingly state. 

Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass ; 

And they, who read the legend underneath, 

Go and pronounce him happy. Yet there is 

A Chamber at Grosseto, that, if walls 

Could speak, and tell of what is done within, 

Would turn your admiration into pity. 

Half of what pass'd died with him ; but the rest, 

All he discover' d when the fit was on. 

All that, by those who listen' d, could be glean'd 

From broken sentences and starts in sleep. 

Is told, and by an honest Chronicler. 

Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia 
(The eldest had not seen his sixteenth summer), 
Went to the chase ; but one of them, Giovanni, 
His best beloved, the glory of his house, 
Return'd not ; and at close of day was found 
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas ! 
The trembling Cosmo guess'd the deed, the 

doer ; 
And having caused the body to be borne 
In secret to that chamber — at an hour 
When all slept sound, save the disconsolate 

Mother,* (38) 
Who little thought of what was yet to come. 
And lived but to be told — he bade Garzia 

* Eleonora di Toledo. 



J^ 




N 



ITALY. 



91 



A. 



c 



Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand 
A winking lamp, and in the other a key 
Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led ; 
And, having enter'd in and lock'd the door, 
The father lix'd his eyes upon the son, 
And closely questioned him. No change betray'd 
Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up 
The bloody sheet. " Look there ! Look there !' 

he cried, 
' ' Blood calls for blood — and from a father's hand ! 
—Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office. 
What!" he exclaim' d, when, shuddering at the 

sight, 
The boy breath'd out, "I stood but on my 

guard." 
" Darest thou then blacken one who never 

wrong'd thee, 
Who would not set his foot upon a worm ? — 
Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee, 
Afid thou shouldst be the slayer of us all." 
Then from Garzia's side he took the dagger, 
That fatal one which spilt his brother's blood ; 
And, kneeling on the ground, " Great God !" 

he cried, 
" Grant me the strength to do an act of Justice. 
Thou knowest what it costs me ; but, alas. 
How can I spare myself, sparing none else ? 
Grant me the strength, the will — and oh forgive 
The sinful soul of a most wretched son. 
'T is a most wretched father who implores it." 
Long on Garzia's neck he hung, and wept 
Tenderly, long press' d him to his bosom ; 









^ 



s\ 






-c-^ 




\! 



ITALY 

And then, but while he held him by the arm, 
Thrusting him backward, turn'd away his face, 
And stabb'd him to the heart. 

Well might De Thou, 
When in his youth he came to Cosmo's court, 
Think on the past ; and, as he wander' d through 
The Ancient Palace— through those ample spaces 
Silent, deserted — stop awhile to dwell 
Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall 
Together, as of two in bonds of love, 
One in a Cardinal's habit, one in black, 
Those of the unhappy brothers, and infer 
From the deep silence that his questions drew, 
The terrible truth. 

Well might he heave a sigh 
For poor humanity, when he beheld 
That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire, 
Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate, 
Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's 

mess. 
In the last stage — death-struck and deadly pale ; 
His wife, another, not his Eleonora, 
At once his nurse and his interpreter. 




Y. 



XXII. 

THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE. 

'T IS morning. Let us wander through the 'jiu 
fields. 
Where Cimabue found a shepherd-boy * 



* Giotto. 






ITAL-S. 

Tracing liis idle fancies on the ground ; 
And let" us from the top of Fiesole, 
Whence GaUleo's glass by night observed 
The phases of the moon, look round below 
On Arno's vale, where the dove-colour'd oxen 
Are plowing up and down among the vines, 
While many a careless note is sung aloud, 
FiUing the air with sweetness — and on thee 
Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls, 
Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and tower^, 
Drawn to our feet. 

From that small spire, just caught 
By the bright ray, that church among the rest 
By One of Old distinguish'd as The Bride, 
Let us pursue in thought (what can we better ?) 
Those who assembled there at matin-prayers ;* 
Who, when Vice revell'd, and along the street 
Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell 
Rang to demand the dead at every door. 
Came out into the meadows ; (39) and, awhile 
Wandering in idleness, but not in folly. 
Sate down in the high grass and in the shade 
Of many a tree sun-proof— day after day. 
When all was still and nothing to be heard 
But the Cicala's voice among the olives, 
Relating in a ring, to banish care, 
Their hundred novels. 

Round the hill they went, 
Round underneath — first to a splendid house, 



r 



* See the Decameron. First Day. 



'\ 




ITALY. 




Gherardi, as an old tradition runs, 
That on the left, just rising from the vale ; 
A place for Luxury — the painted rooms, 
The open galleries and middle court 
Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers. 
Then westward to another, nobler yet ; 
Then on the right, now known as the Palmieri, 
Where Art with Nature vied — a Paradise, 
With verdurous walls, and many a trellis' d walk 
All rose and jasmine, many a forest-vista 
Cross'd by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Val- 
ley ; 
And the clear lake, that seem'd as by enchant- 
ment 
To hft up to the surface every stone 
Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish 
Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold. 
Now motionless, now glancing to the sun. 

Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day ? 
The morning-banquet by the fountain- side, (40) 
The dance that foUow'd, and the noon-tide 

slumber ; 
Then the tales told in turn, as round they lay 
On carpets, the fresh waters murmuring ; 
And the short interval fill'd up with games 
Of Chess, and talk, and reading old Romances, 
Till supper-time, when many a syren-voice 
Sung down the stars, and in the grass the 

torches 
Burnt brighter for their absence. 








He,* whose dream 
It was (it was no more) sleeps in Val d'Elsa, 
Sleeps in the church, where (in his ear I ween) 
The Friar pour'd out his catalogue of treasures ; 
A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone 
To the Wise Men ; a phial-full of sounds, 
The musical chimes of the great bells that hung 
In Solomon's Temple ; and, though last not 

least, 
A feather from the Angel Gabriel's wing, 
Dropt in the Virgin's chamber. 

That dark ridge 
Stretching away in the South-east, conceals it; 
Not so his lowly roof and scanty larm, 
His copse and rill, if yet a trace be left, 
Who lived in Val di Pesa, suffering long 
Exile and want, and the keen shafts of Malice, 
With an unclouded mind.t The glimmering 

tower 
On the grey rock beneath, his land-mark once. 
Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate 
His oread with cheerfulness. 

Who sees him not 
CT is his own sketch — he drew it from himself) 
Playing the bird-catcher, and sallying forth 
In an autumnal morn, laden with "cages, 
To catch a thrush on every lime -twig there ; 
Or in the wood among his wood-cutters ; 
Or in the tavern by the highway-side 



t Machiavel. 



* Boccaccio. 



r^ 






/I 



^ 



.^ 



A 



9G ITALY. 

Ai tric-trac wilh the miller; or at night, 
L- oiling his rustic suit, and, duly clad, 
Entering his closet, and, among his books, 
Among the Great of every age and clime, 
A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased, 
Questioning each why he did this or that, 
And learning how to overcome the tear 
Of poverty and death ? 

Neai'er we hail 
Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of Old 
For its green wine — dearer to me, to most. 
As dwelt on by that great Astronomer,* 
Seven years a prisoner at the city gate. 
Let in but in his grave-clothes. Sacred be 
His cottage (justly was it call'd The Jewel !) 
Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight 
Glimmer' d, at blush of diwn he dress' d his 

vines, 
Chanting aloud in gaiety of heart 
Some verse of Ariosto. There, unseen, (41) 
In manly beauty Milton stood before him, 
Gazing with reverent awe — Milton, his guest, 
Just then come forth, all life and enterprise ; 
He in his old age and extremity, 
Blind, at noon-day exploring with his staff; 
His eyes upturn' d as to the golden sun. 
His eye-balls idly rolling. Little then 
Did Galileo think whom he bade welcome ; 
That in his hand he held the hand of one 

* Galileo. 






\1 



f 



^i 



8?~ t 



H 



ITALY. 





Who could requite him — who would spread his 

name 
O'er lands and seas — great as himself, nay 

greater ; 
Milton as little that in him he saw, 
As in a glass, what he himself should be, 
Destined so soon to fall on evil days 
And evil tongues — so soon, alas, to live 
In darkness, and with dangers compass' d round, 
And solitude. 

Well pleased, could we pursue 
The Arno, from his birth-place in the clouds, 
Sc near the yellow Tiber's (42) — springing up 
From his four fountains on the Apennine, 
That mountain-ridge a sea-mark to the ships 
Sailing on either Sea. Downward he runs, 
Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate 

wild, 
Down by the City of Hermits, and, ere-long, 
The venerable woods of Vallombrosa ; 
Then through these gardens to the Tuscan sea. 
Reflecting castles, convents, villages. 
And those great Rivals in an elder day, 
Florence and Pisa — who have given him fame, 
Fame everlasting, but who stain' d so oft 
His troubled waters. Oft, alas, were seen. 
When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were 

there. 
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up implor- 
ing ; (43) 
The man, the hero, on his foaming steed, 
■ 7 



98 



ITAT.Y 



Borne underneath — already in the realms 
Of Darkness. 

Nor did night or burning noon 
Bring respite. Oft, as that great Artist saw,* 
Whose pencil had avoice, the cry " To arms !" 
And the shrill trumpet, hurried up the bank 
Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide 
And wash from their unharness'd limbs the 

blood 
And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush, 
Violent the tumult ; for, already in sight, 
Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew ; 
Each every sinew straining, every feature. 
Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on 
Morion and greave and shirt of twisted mail, 
As for bis life — no more perchance to taste, 
Arno, the grateful freshness of thy glades. 
Thy waters — where, exulting, he had felt 
A swimmer's transport, there, alas, to float 
And welter. Nor between the gusts of War, 
When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd's 

pipe 
Gladden'd the valley, when, but not unarm'd, 
The sower came forth, and, following him who 

plow'd. 
Threw in the seed — did thy indignant waves 
Escape pollution. Sullen was the splash. 
Heavy and swift the plunge, when they received 
The key that just had grated on the ear 

♦ Michael Angelo. 




% 



<i/^: 




ITALY. 



9& 



Of Ugolino — closing up for ever 

That dismal dungeon henceforth to be named 

The Tower of Famine. 

Once indeed 't was thine 
When many a winter-flood, thy tributary, 
Was through its rocky glen rushing, resounding; 
And thou wert in thy might, to save, restore 
A charge most precious. To the nearest ford, 
Hastening, a horseman from Arezzo came, 
Careless, impatient of delay, a babe 
Slung in a basket to the knotty staff 
That lay athwart his saddle-bow. He spurs. 
He enters ; and his horse, alarm'd, perplex'd, 
Plaits in the midst. Great is the stir, the strife; 
And lo, an atom on that dangerous sea. 
The babe is floating ! Fast and far he flies ; 
Now tempest-rock' d, now whirling round and 

round, 
But not to perish. By thy willing waves 
Borne to the shore, among the bulrushes 
The ark has rested ; and unhurt, secure. 
As on his mother's breast he sleeps within, 
All peace ! or never had the nations heard 
That voice so sweet, which still enchants, in- 
spires ; 
That voice, which sung of love, of liberty. 

Petrarch lay there 1 And such the images 

That cluster' d round our Milton, when at eve 
Reclined beside thee^ Arno ; when at eve 
Led on by thee, he wander"d with delight. 
Framing O vidian verse, and through thy groves 
Gathering wild myrtle. Such the Poet's dreams; 



..:f^1 



100 



ITALY 



Yet not such only. For look round and say, 
Where is the ground that did not drink warm 

blood, 
The echo that had learnt not to articulate 
The cry of murder ? — Fatal was the day 
To Florence, vvhen ('t was in a street behind 
The church and convent of the Holy Cross — 
There is the house — that house of the Donati, 
Towerless, and left long since, but to the last 
Braving assault — all rugged, all emboss' d 
Below, and still distinguish'd by the rings 
Of brass, that held in war and festival-time 
Their lamily-standards) fatal was the day 
To Florence, when, at morn, at the ninth hour, 
A noble Dame in weeds of widowhood, 
Weeds to be worn hereafter by so many. 
Stood at her door ; and, like a sorceress, flung 
Her dazzling spell. Subtle she was, and rich, 
Rich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light, 
Her daughter's beauty ; and too well she knew 
Its virtue ! Patiently she stood and watch'd ; 
Nor stood alone — but spoke not. — In her breast 
Her purpose lay ; and, as a youth pass'd by, 
Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said, 
Lifting a corner of the maiden's veil, 
" This had I treasured up in secret for thee. 
This hast thou lost !" He gazed and was un- 
done ! 
Forgetting — not forgot — he broke the bond, 
And paid the penalty, losing his life 
At the bridge-foot ; (44) and hence a world of 
woe ! 



M 



ITALY. 




101 

Vengeance for vengeance crying, blood for 

blood ; 
No intermission ! Law, that slumbers not, 
And, like the Angel with the flaming sword, 
Sits over all, at once chastising, healing, 
Himself the Avenger, went ; and every street 
Ran red with mutual slaughter — though some- 
times 

The young forgot the lessons they had learnt. 
And loved when they should hate— like thee, 

Imelda, 
Thee and thy Paolo. When last ye met 
In that still hour (the heat, the glare was gone, 
Not so the splendour — through the cedar-grove 
A radiance stream'd like a consuming fire, 
As though the glorious orb, in its descent. 
Had come and rested there) when last ye met. 
And those relentless brothers dragg'd him forth, 
It had been well, hadst thou slept on, Imelda, (45) 
Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night 
Fell on that fatal spot, to wish thee dead. 
To track him by his blood, to search, to find. 
Then fling thee down to catch a word, a look, 
A sigh, if yet thou couldst (alas, thou couldst 

not) 
And die, unseen, unthought of— from the wound 
Sucking the poison. (46) 

Yet, when Slavery came 
Worse follow' d. (47) Genius, Valour left the land, 
Indignant — all that had from age to age 
Adorn'd, ennobled ; and headlong they fell, 
Tyrant and slave. For deeds of violence, 



^J^1 




tt^ 



102 



ITALY. 



Done in broad day and more than half- redeem' d 
By many a great and generous sacrifice 
Of self to others, came the unpledged bowl, 
The stab of the stiletto. Gliding by 
Unnoticed, in slouch'd hat and muffling cloak, 
That just discover'd, Caravaggio-like, 
A swarthy cheek, black brow, and eye of flame, 
The Bravo took his stand, and o'er the shoulder 
Plunged to the hilt, or from beneath the ribs 
Slanting (a surer path, as some averr'd) 
Struck upward — then slunk off, or, if pursued, 
Made for the Sanctuary, and there along 
The glimmering aisle among the worshippers 
Wander' d with restless step and jealous look. 
Dropping thick gore. 

Misnamed to lull suspicion, 
In every Palace was The Laboratory, 
Where he within brew'd poisons swift and slow, 
That scatter' d terror till all things seem'd 

poisonous, 
And brave men trembled if a hand held out 
A nosegay or a letter ; while the Great 
Drank from the Venice-glass, fhat broke, that 

shiver' d. 
If aught malignant, aught of thine was there, 
Cruel Tophana ; (48) and pawn'd provinces 
For the miraculous gem that to the wearer 
Gave signs infallible of coming ill, 
That clouded though the vehicle of death 
Were an invisible perfume. 

Happy then 
The guest to whom at sleeping-time 't was said, 



V 



#1 



ITALY. 



103 



*J 



/^ 



(' 



But in an under- viLe (a lady's page 
Speaks in no louder) " Pass not on. That door 
Leads to another which awaits your coming, 
One in the floor — now left, alas, unbolted, 
No eye detects it — lying under-foot. 
Just as you enter, at the threshold-stone ; 
Ready to fall and plunge you into darkness, 
Darkness and long oblivion !" 

Then indeed 
Where lurk'd not danger ? Through the fairy- 
land 
No seat of pleasure glittering half-way down, 
No hunting-place — but with some damning spot 
That will not be wash'd out I There, at Caiano, 
Where, when the hawks were hooded and 

Night came, 
Pulci would set the 
With his wild lay- 

scends, 
And hill and dale are lost, veil'd with his beams, 
The fair Venetian* died — she and her lord, 
Died of a posset drugg'd by him who sate 
And saw them suffer, flinging back the charge. 
The murderer on the murder' d. 

Sobs of Grief, 
Sounds inarticulate — suddenly stopt. 
And follow' d by a struggle and a gasp, 
A gasp in death, are heard yet in Cerreto, 
Along the marble halls and staircases. 
Nightly at twelve ; and, at the self-same hour, 

* Bianca Capello. 



table in a roar 
-there where the Sun de- 



P 




ITALY. 

Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soulp 
Such as awake the innocent babe to long, 
Long waihng, echo through the emptiness 
Of that old den far up among the hills, (49) 
Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala; 
In them, in both, within five days and less, 
Two unsuspecting victims, passing fair. 
Welcomed with kisses, and slain cruelly, 
One with the knife, one with the fatal noose. 

But lo, the Sun is setting ; earth and sky 
One blaze of glory — What but now we saw 
As though it were not, though it had not been ! 
He lingers yet, and, lessening to a point. 
Shines like the eye of Heaven — then withdraws ; 
And from the zenith to the utmost skirts 
All is celestial red ! The hour is come. 
When they that sail along the distant seas 
Languish for home ; and they that in the morn 
Said to sweet friends "farewell," melt as at 

parting ; 
When, journeying on, the pilgrim, as he hears, 
As now we hear it, echoing round the hill. 
The bell that seems to mourn the dying day, 
Slackens his pace and sighs, and those he loved 
Loves more than ever. Rut who feels it not ? 
And well may we, for we are far away. 
Let us retire, and, hril it in our hearts. 



^^ 



.^ 




PART II. 



I. 
THE PILGRIM. 

I It was an hour of universal joy. 

\'Y The lark was up and at the gate of heaven, 

Singing, as sure to enter when he came ; 
The butterfly was basking in my path, 
His radiant wings unfolded. From below 
The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively ; 
And odours, such as welcome in the day, 
Such as salute the early traveller, 
And come and go, each sweeter than the last, 
Were rising. Hill and valley breathed delight ; 
And not a living thing but bless' d the hour ! 
In every bush and brake there was a voice 
Responsive ! 

From the Thrasymene, that now 
Slept in the sun, a lake of molten gold, 
Rock'd to and fro unfelt, so terrible 
The rage, the slaughter, I had turn'd away ; 

105 



^ 



% 




106 



ITALY. 



^\ 



The path, that led me, leading through a wood 
A fairy-wilderness of fruits and flowers, 
And by a brook tli'^t, in the day of strife, 
Ran blood, but now runs amber — when a glade, 
Far, far within, sunn'd only at noon-day. 
Suddenly open'd. Many a bench was there. 
Each round its ancient elm ; and many a track, 
Well known to them that from the highway 

loved 
Awhile to deviate. In the midst a cross 
Of mouldering stone as in a temple stood, 
Solemn, severe ; coeval with the trees 
That round it in majestic order rose ; 
And on the lowest step a Pilgrim knelt, 
Clasping his hands in prayer. He was the fire"^ 
Yet seen by me (save in a midnight- masque, 
A revel, where none cares to play his part. 
And they, that speak, at once dissolve the 

charm) 
The first in sober truth, no counterfeit ; 
And, when his orisons were duly paid. 
He rose, and we exchanged, as all are wont, 
A traveller's greeting. 

Young and of an age 
When Youth is most attractive, when a light 
Plays round and round, reflected, if I err not, 
From some attendant Spirit, that ere-long 
(His charge relinquish'd with a sigh, a tear) 
Wings his flight upward — with a look he won 
My favour ; and, the spell of silence broke, 
I could not but continue. 



M 





;o 





ITALY. 

"Whence," I ask'd, 
♦'Whence art thou ?"—" From Mont' alto," 

he rephed, 
" My native village in the Apennines." 
"And whither journeying?" — "To the holy 

shrine 
Of Saint Antonio, in the City of Padua. 
Perhaps, if thou hast ever gone so far. 
Thou wilt direct my course." — "Most wil- 
lingly ; 
But thou hast much to do, much to endure. 
Ere thou hast enter' d where the silver lamps 
Burn ever. Tell me — I v/ould not transgress, 
Yet ask I must — what could have brought thee 

forth; 
Nothing in act or thought to be atoned for ?" — 
" It was a vow I made in my distress. 
We were so blest, none were so blest as we, 
Till Sickness came. First, as death-struck, I 

fell; 
Then my beloved sister ; and ere-long. 
Worn with continual watchings, night and day, 
Our saint-like mother. Worse and worse she 

grew ; 
And in my anguish, my despair, I vow'd. 
That if she lived, if Heaven restored her to us, 
I would forthwith, and in a Pilgrim's weeds. 
Visit that holy shrine. My vow was heard ; 
And therefore am I come." — " Thou hast done 

well ; 
And may those weeds, so reverenced of old, 
Guard thee in danger !" — 




V 





IT A LY. 

" They are nothing worth. 
But they are worn in humble confidence ; 
Nor would I for the richest robe resign them, 
Wrought, as they were, by those I love so well, 
Lauretta and my sister ; theirs the task, 
But none to them, a pleasure, a delight. 
To ply their utmost skill, and send me forth 
As best became this' service. Their last words, 
' Fare thee well, Carlo. We shall count the 

hours !' 
Will not go from me." — 

" Health and strength be thine 
In thy long travel ! May no sun-beam strike ; 
No vapour cling and wither ! Mayest thou be, 
Sleeping or waking, sacred and secure ! 
And, when again thou comest, thy labour done, 
Joy be among ye ! In that happy hour 
All will pour forth to bid thee welcome. Carlo ; 
And there is one, or I am much deceived. 
One thou hast named, who will not be the last."— 
" Oh, she is true as Truth itself can ffe ! 
But ah, thou knowest her not. Would that 

thou couldst ! 
My steps I quicken when I think of her ; 
For, though they take me further from her door, 
I shall return the sooner." 





/^ 



^ 



«H> 



ITALY. 



109 



And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there, 
That may hereafter in a thoughtful hour 
Wake but a sigh, 't is treasured up among 
The things most precious ; and the day it came, 
Is noted as a white day in our Hves. 

The sun was wheeUng westward, and the 
cUfTs 
And nodding woods, ^hat everlastingly 
(Such the dominion of thy mighty voice, 
Thy voice, Velino, utter'd in the mist) 
Hear thee and answer thee, were left at length 
For others still as noon ; and on we stray'd 
From wild to wilder, nothing hospitable 
Seen up or down, no bush or green or dry, 
That ancient symbol at the cottage-door. 
Offering rel'reshment — when Luigi cried, 
" Well; of a thousand tracts we chose the best !" 
And, turning round an oak, oracular once. 
Now lightning-struck, a cave, a thoroughfare 
For all that came, each entrance a broad arch, 
Whence many a deer, rustling his velvet coat, 
Had issued, many a gipsy and her brood 
Peer'd forth, then housed again — the floor yet 

grey 
With ashes, and the sides, where roughest, hung 
Loosely with locks of ban* — I look'd and saw 
What, seen in such an hour by Sancho Panza, 
Had given his honest countenance a breadth, 
His cheeks a flush of pleasure and surprise, 
Unknown before, had chain'd him to the spot, 



'^, 



j^: 




crs*. 



%\ ^•■^^' 



no 



ITALY. 



And thou, Sir Knight, hadst reversed hill and 

dale 
Squire -less. 

3elow and winding far away, 
A narrow glade unfolded, such as Spring 
Broiders with flowers, and, when the moon is 
r^, high, . 

Tiie hare delights to race in, scattering round 
Tiie silvery dews. Cedar and cypress threw 
Singly their length of shadow, chequering 
The greensward, and, what grew in frequent 

tufts. 
An underwood of myrtle, that by fits 
Sent up a gale of fragrance. Through the 

midst. 
Reflecting, as it ran, purple and gold, 
A rainbow's splendour (somewhere in the east 
Rain-drops were falliug fast) a rivulet 
Sported as loth to go ; and on the bank 
Stood (in the eyes of one, if not of both, 
Worth all the rest and more) a sumpter-mule 
Well-laden, while two menials as in haste 
Drew from his ample panniers, ranging round 
Viands and fruits on many a shining salver, 
And plunging in the cool translucent wave 
Flasks of delicious wine. 

Anon a horn 
Blew, through the champaign bidding to the 

feast, 
Its jocund note to other ears address' d, 
Not ours ; and, slowly coming by a path, 





ITALY. 

That, ere it issued from an ilex-grove, 

Was seen far inward, though along the glade 

Distinguish' d only by a fresher verdure, 

Peasants approach'd, one leading in a leash 

Beagles yet panting, one with various game 

In rich confusion slung, before, behind, 

Leveret and quail and pheasant. All announced 

The chase as over ; and ere -long appear' d 

Their horses full of fire, champing the curb. 

For the white foam was dry upon the flank. 

Two in close converse, each in each delighting, 

Their plumage waving as instinct with life ; 

A Lady young and graceful, and a Youth, 

Yet younger, bearing on a falconer's glove, 

As in the golden, the romantic time. 

His. falcon hooded. Like some spirit of air, 

Or fairy-vision, such as feign'd of old. 

The Lady, while her courser paw'd the ground, 

Alighted ; and her beauty, as she trod 

The enamell'd bank, bruising nor herb nor 

flower. 
That place illupined. 

Ah, who should she be, 
And with her brother, as when last we met, 
(When the first lark had sung ere half 

said. 
And as she stood, bidding adieu, her voice, 
So sweet it was, recall' d me like a spell) 
Who But Angelica ? 

That day we gave 
To Pleasure, and, unconscious of their flight, 



was 





l^ 



"c 




ITALY. 

Another and another ; hers a home 

Dropt from the sky amid the wild and rude, 

Loretto-hke. The rising moon we hail'd, 

Duly, devoutly, from a vestibule 

Of many an arch, o'erwrought and lavishly 

With many a wildering dream of sylphs and 

flowers, 
When Raphael and his school from Florence 

came, 
Fining the land with splendour — nor less oft 
Watch'd her, declining, from a silent dell, 
Not silent once, what time in rivalry 
Tasso, Guarini, waved their wizard-wands, 
Peopling the groves from Arcady, and lo, 
Fair forms appear'd, murmuring melodious 

verse, 
— Then, in their day, a sylvan theatre. 
Mossy the seats, the. stage a verdurous floor, 
The scenery rock and shrub-wood, Nature's 

own ; 
Nature the Architect. 



III. 
ROME. 



€ 



I AM in Rome ! Oft as the morning-ray 
Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, 
Whence this excess of joy ? What has befallen 

me? 
And from within a thrilling voice replies, 
Thou art in Rome ! A thousand busy thoughts 



'I 




% 




ITALY 






V'.i 





Rush on my mind, a thousand images ; 
And I spring up as girt to run a race ! 

Thou art in Rome ! the City that so long 
Reign'd absolute, the mistress of the world ; 
The mighty vision that the prophets saw, 
And trembled; that from nothing, from the least, 
The lowliest village (what but here and there 
A reed-roof d cabin by a river-side ?) 
Grew into everything ; and, year by year, 
Patiently, fearlessly working her way 
O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea, 
Not like the merchant with his merchandise, 
Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring. 
But hand to hand and foot to foot, through hosts 
Through nations numberless in battle-array. 
Each behind each, each, when the other fell. 
Up and in arms, at length subdued them all. 

Thouart in Rome! the City, where the Gauls, 
Entering at sun-rise through her open gates, 
And, through her streets silent and desolate, 
Marching to slay, thought they saw Gods, not 

men ; 
The City that, by temperance, fortitude. 
And love of glory, tower'd above the clouds, 
Then fell — but, falling, kept the highest seat, 
And in her loneliness, her pomp of woe. 
Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild, 
Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age, 
Her empire undiminish'd. 

There, as though 
Grandeur attracted Grandeur, are beheld 



J 



r^- 






ITALY. 

things that strike, ennoble — from the 

depths 
Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece, 
Her groves, her temples — all things that inspire 
Wonder, delight ! Who would not say the 

Forms 
Most perfect, most divine, had by consent 
Flock'd thither to abide eternally, 
Within those silent chambers where they dwell, 
IiT happy intercourse ? 

And I am there I 
Ah, little thought I, when in school I sate, 
A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn 
Glowing with Roman story, I should live 
To tread the Appian, (50) once an avenue 
Of monuments most glorious, palaces, 
Their doors seal'd vip and silent as the night, 
The dwellings of the illustrious dead — to turn 
Toward Tiber, and, beyond the City-gate, 
Pour out my unpremeditated verse, 
Where on his mule 1 might have met so oft 
Horace himself (51) — or climb the Palatine, 
Dreaming of old Evander and his guest, 
Dreaming and lost on that proud eminence, 
Longwbile the seat of Rome, hereafter found 
Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood 
Engender'd there, so Titan-hke) to lodge 
One in his madness ;* and, the summit gain'd. 
Inscribe my name on some broad aloe-leaf, 
That shoots and spreads within those very walls 

♦Nero. 



^I(A 



\t 














\^ 



^ 



ITALY. 



il5 



Where Virgil read aloud his tale divine, 
Where his voice fuUer'd, and a mother wept 
Tears of delight ! 

But what a narrow space 
Just underneath ! In many a heap the ground 
Heaves, as though Ruin in a frantic mood 
Had done hi'S utmost. Here and there appears, 
As left to show his handy- work not ours, 
An idle column, a half-buried arch, 
A wall of some great temple. 

It was once. 
And long, the centre of their Universe, (52) 
The Forum — whence a mandate, eagle-wing'd. 
Went to the ends of the earth. Let us descend 
Slowly. At every step much may be lost 
The very dust we tread, stirs as with life ; 
And not the lightest breath that sends not up 
Something of human grandeur. 

We are come, 
Are now where once the mightiest spirits met 
In terrible conflict ; this, while Rome was free, 
The noblest theatre on this side Heaven ! 
Here the first Brutus stood, when o'er the 
corse 
Of her so chaste all mourn' d, and from his cloud 
Burst like a God. Here, holding up the knife 
That ran with blood, the blood of his own child, 
Virginius call'd down vengeance. — But whence 

spoke 
They who harangued the people ; turning now 
To the twelve tables, (53) now with lifted hands 




i 1/ 




'^^H'i 





ITALY. 

To the Capitoline Jove, whose fulgent shape 
In the unclouded azure shone far oif, 
And to the shepherd on the Alban mount 
Seem'd like a star new-risen ? Where were 

ranged 
In rough array as on their element, 
The beaks of those old galleys, destined still * 
To brave the brunt of war — at last to know 
A calm far worse, a silence as in death ? 
All spiritless ; from that disastrous hour 
When he, the bravest, gentlest of them all,t 
Scorning the chains he could not hope to break, 
Fell on his sword ! 

Along the Sacred Way 
Hither the Triumph came, and, winding round 
With acclamation, and the martial clang 
Of instruments, and cars laden with spoil, 
Stopt at the sacred stair that then appear' d, 
Then through the darkness broke, ample, star- 
bright. 
As though it led to heaven. ' T was night ; 

but now 
A thousand torches, turning night to day, 
Blazed, and the victor, springing from his seat, 
Went up, and, kneeling as in fervent prayer, 
Enter'd the Capitol. But what are they, 
Who at the foot withdraw, a mournful train 
In fetters ? And who, yet incredulous, 
Now gazing wildly round, now on his sons, 



♦ The Rostra. 



t Marcus Junius Brutus. 



At 



m 



III 




^J 



Y^ 



ITALY. 117 

On those so ycung, well-pleased with all they 

see, (54) 
Staggers along, the last ? — They are the fallen, 
Those who were spared to grace the chariot- 
wheels ; 
And there they parted, where the road divides, 
The victor and the vanquish' d — there withdrew; 
He to the festal-board, and they to die. 

Well might the great, the mighty of the world, 
They who were wont to fare deliciously, 
And war but for a kingdom more or less. 
Shrink back, nor from their thrones endure to 

look, 
To think that way I Well might they in their 

state 
Humble themselves, and kneel and supplicate 
To be delivered from a dream like this ! 



•ii 



Here Cincinnatus pass'd, his plow the while 
Left in the furrow, and how many more. 
Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the 

earth, 
Consuls, Dictators, still in Curule pomp 
Sit and decide ; and, as of old in Rome, 
Name but their names, set every heart on fire ! 



Here, in his bonds, 
saved not,* 



he whom the phalanx 



* Perseus. 



^f^. 



\ 



vj: 





ITALY. 

The last on Pliilip'stlirone ; and the Numidian,* 
So soon to say, stript of his cumbrous robe, 
Stript to the skin, and in his nakedness 
Thrust under-ground, " How cold this bath of 

yours !" 
And thy proud queen, Palmyra, through the 

sands t 
Pursued, o'ertaken on her dromedary ; 
Whose temples, palaces, a wondrous dream 
That passes not away, for many a league 
Illumine yet the desert. Some invoked 
Death, and escaped ; the Egyptian, when her 

asp 
Came from his covert under the green leaf; \ 
And Hannibal himself; and she who said. 
Taking the fatal cup between her hands, i 
" Tell him I would it had come yesterday ; 
For then it had not been his nuptial gift." 

Now all is changed ; and here, as in the wild, 
The day- is silent, dreary as the night ; 
None stirring, save the herdsman and his herd, 
Savage alike ; or they that would explore. 
Discuss and learnedly ; or they that come, 
(And there are many who have cross' d the 

earth) 
That they may give the hours to meditation, 
And wander, often saying to themselves, 
" This was the Roman Forum !" 

* Jugurtha. t Zenobia. t Cleopatra. § Sophonisba. 



V 



r^m. 




ITALY 






A FUNERAL. 

" Whence this delay ?" " Along the crowded 
street 
A Funeral comes, and witJa unusual pomp. 
So I withdrew a little, and stood still, 
While it went by. ' ' She died as she deserved," 
Said an Abate, gathering up his cloak, 
And with a shrug retreating as the tide 
Fiow'd more and more. — " But she was beau- 
tiful!" 
Rephed a soldier of the Pontiff's guard. 
" And innocent as beautiful !" exclaim' d 
A Matron sitting in her stall, hung round 
With garlands, holy pictures, and what not ? 
Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs display'd 
In rich profusion. From her heart she spoke ; 
And I accosted her to hear her story. 
" The stab," she cried, " was given in jealousy; 
But never fled a purer spirit to heaven, 
As thou wilt say, or much my mind misleads, 
When thou hast seen her face. Last night at 

dusk 
When on her way from vespers — None were 

near, 
None save her serving^boy, who knelt and wept, 
But what could tears avail him, when she fell — 
Last night at dusk, the cloffkthen striking nine, 
Just by the fountain — that before the church. 
The church she always used, St. Isidore's — 
Alas, I knew her from her earliest youth, 




120 



ITALY. 




That excellent lady. Ever would she say, 
. Good even, as she pass'd, and w^ith a voice 
Gentle as theirs in heaven !" — But now by fits 
A dull and dismal noise assail' d the ear, 
A wail, a chant, louder and louder yet ; 
And now a strange fantastic troop appear'd ! 
Thronging, they came — as from the shades 

below ; 
All of a ghostly white ! " Oh say, I cried, 
"Do not the living here bury the dead ? 
Do Spirits come and fetch them ? What are 

these. 
That seem not of this World, and mock the 

Day; 
Each with a burning taper in his hand ?" — 
*' It is an ancient Brotherhood thou seest. 
Such their apparel. Through the long, long 

line 
Look where thou wilt, no likeness of a man ; 
The living mask'd, the dead alone uncover'd. 
But mark" — And, lying on her funeral- couch. 
Like one asleep, her eye-lids closed, her hands 
Folded together on her modest breast. 
As 't were her nightly posture, through the 

crowd 
She came at last — and richly, gaily clad, 
As for a birth-day feast ! But breathes she not ? 
A glow is on her cheek — and her lips move ! 
And now a smile is there — how heavenly sweet ! 
" Oh no !" replied fhe Dame, wiping her tears, 
But with an accent less of grief than anger, 
*' No, she will never, never wake again !" 




♦^^Z 



ITALY. 



121 



Death, when we meet the spectre in our 

walks, 
As we did yesterday, and shall to-morrow, 
Soon grows familiar — like most other things. 
Seen, not observed ; but in a foreign clime, 
Changing his shape to something new and 

strange, 
(And through the world he changes as in sport, 
Affect he greatness or humility) 
Knocks at the heart. His form and fashion here 
To me, I do confess, reflect a gloom, 
A sadness round ; yet one I vyould not lose ; 
Being in unison with all things else 
In this, this land of shadows, where we live 
More in past time than present, where the 

ground 
League beyond league, like one great cemetery, 
Is cover' d o'er with mouldering monuments ; 
And, let the living wander where they will. 
They cannot leave the footsteps of the dead. 

Oft, where the burial-rite follows so fast 
The agony, oft coming, nor from far. 
Must a fond father meet his darling child, 
(Him who at parting climb' d his knees and 

clung) 
Clay-cold and wan, and to the bearers cry, 
" Stand, I conjure ye I" 

Seen thus destitute, 
What are the greatest ? They must speak be- 
yond 
A thousand homiUes. When Raphael went, 



7l\ 



X 



^ 



\ \*3^ 



122 



ITALY. 



Ai. 



I 



His heavenly face the mirror of his mind, 
His mind a temple for all lovely things 
To flock to and inhabit — when He went, 
Wrapt in his sable cloak, the cloak he wore, 
To sleep beneath the venerable Dome,* 
By those attended, who in life had loved. 
Had worshipp'd, following in his steps to Fame, 
('Twas on an April-day, when Nature smiles) 
All Rome was there. But, ere the march began, 
Ere to receive their charge the bearers came. 
Who had not sought him ? And when all beheld 
Him, where he lay, how changed from yester- 
day. 
Him in that hour cut off, and at his head 
His last great work ; when, entering in, they 

look'd 
Now on the dead, now on that master-piece, 
Now on his face, lifeless and colourless, 
Then on those forms divine that lived and 

breathed. 
And would live on for ages — all were moved ; 
And sighs burst forth, and loudest lamentations. 





^r^?\ 





ITALY. 

suii-rise I had reflected a little, and in the sober- 
est prose. My indignation was gone ; and, 
when Luigi undrew my curtain, crying, "Up, 
Signor, up ! The horses are at the door." — 
"Luigi," I replied, "if thou lovest me, draw 
the curtain."* 

It would lessen very n:uch the severity with 
which men judge of each other, if they would 
but trace effects to their causes, and observe the 
progress of filings in the moral, as accurately as 
in the physical world. When we condemn 
millions in the mass as vindictive and sangui- 
nary, we should remember that, wherever Jus- 
tice is ill-administered, the injured will redress 
themselves. Robbery provokes to robbery ; 
murder to assassination. Resentments become 
hereditary ; and what began in disorder, ends 
as if all Hell had broke loose. 

Laws create a habit of self-restraint, not only 
by the influence of fear, but by regulating in its 
exercise the passion of revenge. If they overawe 
the bad by the prospect of a punishment cer- 
tain and well-defined, they console the injured 
by the infliction of that punishment ; and, as the 
infliction is a public act, it excites and entails 
no enmity. The laws are offended ; and the 
community, for its own sake, pursues and over- 
takes the offender ; often without the concurrence 
of the sufferer, sometimes against his wishes. 

♦ A dialogue, which is said to nave passed many years 
ago at Lyons (Mem. de Grammont, I, 3.) and which 
may still be heard in almost every hotellerie at day-break 



V 



« 



Y: 



*71' 






vA 











Now those who were not born, hke ourselves, 
to such advantages, we should surely rather pity 
than hate ; and, when at length they venture to 
turn agamst their rulers, ■•' we should lament, not 
wonder at their excesses ; remembering that na- 
tions are naturally patient and long-suffering, and 
seldom rise in rebellion till they are so degraded 
'oy a bad government as to be almost incapable 
ot" a good one. 

"Hate them, perhaps," you aaay say, we 
should not ; but despise them we must, if en- 
slaved, like the people of Rome, in mind as 
well as body ; if their religion be a gross and 
barbarous superstition." — I respect knowledge ; 
but I do not despise ignorance. They think 
only as their fathers thought, worship as they 
worshipped. They do no more ; and if ours 
had not burst their bondage, braving imprison- 
ment and death, might not we at this very mo- 
ment have been exhibiting, in our streets and 
our churches, the same processions, ceremonials, 
and mortifications ? 

Nor should we require from those who are 
in an earlier stage of society, what belongs to a 

* As the descendants of an illustrious people have lately 
done. Can It be believed that there are aiany among ue, 
who, from a desire to be tliought superior to comraonplac© 
sentiments and vulgar feelings, affect an indifference to 
their cause ! " If the Greeks," iliey say, " had the probity 
of other nations— but, they are false to a proverb !" And 
is not falsehood the chaifltteristic of slaves ? Man is the 
creature of circumstances Free, he has the qualities of 
a freeman; enslaved, those of a slave. 







ITALY. 



125 



later ? They are only where we once were ; 
and why hold them in derision ? It is their 
business to cultivate the inferior arts before they 
think of the more re.ined ; and in many of the 
last what are we as a nation, when compared to 
others that have passed away ? Unfortunately, 
it is too much the practice of governments to 
nurse and keep alive in the governed their na- 
tional prejudices. It withdraws their attention 
from what is passing at home, and m.akes them 
better tools in the hands of Ambition. Hence 
next-door neighbours are held up to us from 
our childhood as natural enemies ; and we are 
urged on like curs to worry each other.* 

In like manner we should learn to be just to 
individuals. Who can say, " In such circum- 
stances I should have done otherwise ?" Who, 
did he but reflect by \^iat slow gradations, 
often by how many strange concurrences, 
we are led astray ; with how much reluc- 
tance, how much agony, how many efforts to 
escape, how many self-accusations, how many 
sighs, how many tears — Who, did he but 



* Candor, genprosity, how rare are Ihey in the world ; 
and how much is to be deplored the want of them! 
When a minister in onr parliament consents at last to a 
mefaure, which, for many reasons perhaps existing no 
longer, he ha 1 before rpfusoil to adopt, th^re should be 
no exultation as ovrr the fallen, no taunt, no jeer. How 
often may the resistance be continued lest an enemy 

. should triumih. and the result of conviction be received 

* as a symptom of fear ! 



X 




'f^ 



ITALY. 

reflect for a moment, would have the heart to 
cast a stone ? Fortunately, these thuigs are 
known to Him, from whom no secrets are hid- 
den ; and let us rest in the assurance that his 
judgments are not as ours are. 

VI. 

THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME. 

Have none appeared as tillers of the ground, 
None since They went — as though it still were 

theirs, 
And they might come and claim their own 

again ? 
Was the last plow a Roman's? 

From this Seat, 
Sacred for ages, wheuce, as Virgil sings, 
The Queen of Heaven, alighting from the sky, 
Look'd down and saw the armies in array, 
Let us contemplate ; and, where dreams from 

Jove 
Descended on the sleeper, where perhaps 
Some inspirations may b-e lingering still. 
Some glimmerings of the future or the past, 
Await their influence ; silently revolving 
The changes from that hour, when He from 

Troy 
Went up the Tiber ; when refulgent shields. 
No strangers to the iron-hail of war, 



*JEneid,xii. 134. 






r? 



^' 



fjsv 



(A. 



ITALY 



Stream' d far and wide, and dashing oars were 

heard 
Among those woods where Silvia's stag was 

lying, 
His antlers gay with flowers; among those woods 
Where, by the Moon, that saw and yet with- 
drew not, 
Two were so soon to wander and be slain, 
Two lovely in their lives, nor in their death 
Divided. 

Then, and hence to be discern'd, 
How many realms, pastoral and warlike, lay 
Along this plain, each with its schemes of power, 
Its little rivalships ! What various turns 
Of fortune there ; what moving accidents 
From ambuscade and open violence ! 
Mingling, the sounds came up ; and hence how 

oft 
We might have caught among the trees below, 
Glittering with helm and shield, the men of 

Tibur ;* 
Or in Greek vesture, Greek their origin, 
Some embassy ascending to ProBneste;t 
How oft descried, without thy gates, Aricia,! 
Entering the solemn grove for sacrifice, 
Senate and People ! — Each a busy hive, 
Glowing with life I 

But all ere -long are lost 
In one. We look, and where the river rolls 
Southward its shining labyrinth, in her strength 
A City, girt with battlements and towers, 

* Tivoli. t Palestrina t La Riccia. 






'^ 



f' 






1 



r^ 




"■^ 




ITALY. 

On seven small hills is rising. Round about, 
At rural work, the Citizens are seen, 
None unemploy'd ; the noblest of them all 
Binding their sheaves or on their threshing- 

Hoors, 
As though they had not conquer' d. Everywhere 
Some trace of valour or heroic virtue ! 
Here is the sacred, field of the Horatii, 
There are the Quintian meadows. Here the 

hill * 
How holy, where a generous people, twice, 
Twice going forth, in terrible anger sate 
Arm'd; and, their wrongs redress' d, at once 

gave way. 
Helmet and shield, and sword and spear thrown 

down, 
And every hand uplifted, every heart 
Pour'd out in thanks to Heaven. 

Once again 
We look ; and, lo, the sea is white with sails 
Innumerable, wafting to the shore 
Treasures untold ; the vale, the promontories, 
A dream of glory ; temples, palaces, 
Call'd up as by enchantment ; aqueducts 
Among the groves and glades rolling along 
Rivers, on many an arch high over-head ; 
And in the centre, like a burning-sun, 
The Imperial City ] They have now subdued 
All nations. But where they who led them forth; 
Who, when at length released by victory, 
buckler and spear hung up — but not to rust) 

* Moiw Sacer. 



«^^ 





ITALY, 

Held poverty no evil, no reproach, 
Living on little with a cheerful mind, 
The Decii, the Fabricii ? Where the spade 
And reaping-hook, among their household- 
things 
Duly transmitted ? In the hands of men 
Made captive ; while the master and his guests, 
Reclining, quaff in gold, and roses swim, 
Summer and winter, through the circling year, 
On their Falernian — in the hands of men 
Dragg'd into slavery, with how many more 
Spared but to die, a public spectacle, 
- In combat with each other, and required 

I /^ To fall with grace, with dignity to sink, 

" While life is gushing, and the plaudits ring 

Faint and yet fainter on their failing ear, 
As models for the sculptor. 

But their days. 
Their hours are number'd. Hark, a yell, a shriek, 
A barbarous dissonance, loud and yet louder, 
That echoes from the mountain to the sea ! 
And mark, beneath us, like a bursting cloud. 
The battle moving onward ! Had they slain 
Ail, that the earth should from her Vi'omb bring 

forth 
New nations to destroy them ? From the depth 
Of forests, from what none had dared explore, 
Regions of thrilling ice, as though an ice 
Engendered, multiplied, they pour along, 
Shaggy and huge ! Host after host, they come ; 
The Goth, the Vandal ; and again the Goth ! 
Once more we look, and all is still as night, 




m 




ITALY, 

All desolate ! Groves, temples, paJaces, 
Swept from the sight, and nothing visible, 
Amid the sulphurous vapours that exhale 
As from a land accurst, save here and there 
An empty tomb, a fragment like the limb 
Of some dismember'd giant. In the midst 
A City stands, her domes and turrets crown'd 
With many a cross ; but they, that issue forth, 
Wander like strangers who had built among 
The mighty ruins, silent, spiritless ; 
And on the road, where once we might have met 
Csesar and Cato, and men more than kings, 
We meet, none else, the pilgrim and the beggar. 



THE ROMAN PONTIFFS. 
Those ancient men, what were they, 

achieved 
A sway beyond the greatest conquerors ; 
Setting their feet upon the necks of kings, 
And, through the world, subduing, chaining 

down 
The free immortal spirit ? Were they not 
Mighty magicians ? Theirs a wondrous spell, 
Where true and false were with infernal art 
Close-interwoven ; where together met 
Blessings and curses, threats and promises j 
And with the terrors of Futurity 
Mingled whate'er enchants and fascinates, 
Music and painting, sculpture, rhetoric 
And architectural pomp, such as none else ; 




ITALY. 





And dazzling light, and darkness visible 1 (55) 
What in his day the Syracusan sought, 
Another world to plant his engines on, 
They had ; and, having it, hke gods, not men, 
Moved this world at their pleasure. Ere they 

came, 
Their shadows, stretching far and wide, were 

known. 
And Two, that look'd beyond the visible sphere, 
Gave notice of their comang — he who saw 
The Apocalypse ; and he of elder time, 
Who in an awful vision of the night 
Saw the Four Kingdoms. Distan^as they were, 
Well might those holy men be filled with fear ! 

VIII. 
CAIUS CESTIUS. 
When I am inclined to be serious, I love to 
wander up and down before the tomb of Caius 
Cestms. The Protestant burial-ground is there ; 
and most of the little monuments are erected to 
the young ; young men of promise, cut off when 
on their travels, full of enthusiasm, full of enjoy- 
ment ; brides, in the bloom of their beauty, on 
their first journey ; or children, borne from 
honie in search of heahh. This stone was placed 
by his fellow-travellers, young as himself, who 
will return to the house of his parents without 
him ; that, by a husband or father, now in his 
native country. His heart is buried in that 
grave. 



?/? 



s. 





ITALY. 

It is a quiet and sheltered nook, covered in 
the winter with violets ; and the Pyramid, that 
overshadows it, gives it a classical and singular- 
ly solemn air. You feel an interest there, a 
sympathy you were not prepared for. You are 
yourself in a foreign land ; and ihey are for the 
most part your cousnry-nien. They call upon 
you in your mother-tongue — in English — in 
words unknown to a native, known only to 
yourselves : and the tomb of Cestius, that old 
majestic pile, has this also in common with 
them. It is itself a stranger, among strangers. It 
has stood there till the language spoken around 
about it has changed ; and the shepherd, born 
at the foot, can read its inscription no longer. 

IX. 

THE NUN. 

'T IS over ; and her lovely cheek is now 
On her hard pillow — there, alas, to be 
Nightly, through many and many a dreary hour, 
Wan, often wet with tears, and (ere at length 
Her place is empty, and another comes) 
In anguish, in the ghastliness of death ; 
Hers never more to leave those mournful walls, 
Even on her bier. 

'T is over ; and the rite, 
With all its pomp and harmony, is now 
Floating before her. She arose at home, 
To be the show, the idol of the day ; 
Her vesture gorgeous, and her starry head— 




No rocket, bursting in the midnight-sky, 
So dazzhng. When to-morrow siie awakes, 
She will awake as though she still was there, 
Still in her father's house ; and lo, a cell 
Narrow and dark, nought through the glcom 

discerned, 
Nought save the crucifix, the rosary, 
And the grey habit lying by to shroud 
Her beauty and grace. 

When on her knees she fell. 
Entering the solemn place of consecration, 
And from the latticed gallery came a chaunt 
Of Psalms, most saint-like, most angelical, 
Verse after verse sung out, how holily ! 
The strain returning, and still, siill returning, 
Methought it acted like a spell upon her, 
And she was casting off her earthly dross ; 
Yet it was sad as sweet, and, ere it closed. 
Came like a dirge. When her fair head w^as 

shorn. 
And the long tresses in her hands were laid, 
That she might fling them from her, saying, 

" Thus, 
Thus I renounce the world and worldly things!" 
When, as she stood, her bridal ornaments 
Were, one by one, removed, even to the last. 
That she might say, flinging them from her, 

" Thus, 
Thus I renounce the world!" When all was 

chang'd 
And, as a nun, in homeliest guise she knelt, 
Veil'd in her veil, crown' d with her silver crown, 



I^K.'^ 



^ 




134 




ITALX 



Her crown cf lilies as the spouse of Christ, 
Well might her strength forsake her, and her 

knees 
Fail in that hour ! Well might the holy man, 
He, at whose feet she knelt; give as by stealth 
('T was in her utmost need; nor, while she lives, 
Will it go from her, fleeting as it was) (56) 

That faint but fatherly smile, that smile of love 
And piiy ! 

Like a dream the whole is fled ; 
And they, that came in idleness to gaze 
Upon the victim dress' d for sacrifice. 
Are mingling in the world ; thou in thy cell 
Forgot, Teresa. Yet, among them all, 
None were so form'd to Jove, and to be loved, 
None to delight, adorn ; and on thee now 
A curtain, blacker than the night, is dropp'd 
Forever ! In thy gentle bosom sleep 
Feelings, affections, destined now to die, 
To wither like the blossom in the bud. 
Those of a wife, a mother ; leaving there 
A cheerless void, a chill as of the grave, 
A languor and a lethargy of soul, 
Death-like, and gathering more and more, till 

Death 
Comes to release thee. Ah, what now to thee. 
What now to thee the treasure of thy Youth ? 
As nothing ! 

But thou canst not yet reflect 
Calmly ; so many things, strange and perverse, 
That meet, recoil, and go but to return, 
The monstrous birth of one eventful day, 



\1 



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Pr 



^ 




ITALY. 

Troubling thy spirit — from the tlrst, at dawn, 
The rich arraying for the nuptial feast, 
To the black pall, the requiem. (57) 

All in tirn 
Revisit thee, and round thy lowly bed 
Hover, uncall'd. The young and innocent heart, 
How is it beating ? Has it no regrets ? 
Disco verest tkou no weakness lurking there ? 
But thine exhausted frame has sunk to rest. 
Peace to thy slumbers I 

X. 

THE FIRE-FLY. 

There is an Insect, that, when Evening 
comes, 
Small though he be and scarce distinguishable. 
Like Evening clad in soberest livery, 
Unsheaths his wings, and through the woods 

and glades 
Scatters a marvellous splendour. On he wheels, 
Blazing by fits as from excess of joy, 
Each gush of light a gush of ecstacy ; 
]Sl or unaccompanied ; thousands that fling 
A radiance all their own, not of the day, 
Thousands as bright as he, from dusk till dawn. 
Soaring, descending. 

In the mother's lap 
Well may the child put forth his little hands, 
Singing the nursery-song he learnt so soon ; 
And the young nymph, preparing for the dance 
By brook or fountain-side, in many a braid 






jji 



d 



f^. 





ITALy. 

Wreathing her golden hair, \ ell may she cry, 
"Come hither; and the shepherds, gathering 

round, 
Shall say, P^loretta emulates the Night, 
Spangling her head with stars." 

Oft have I met 
This shining race, when in the Tusculan groves 
My path no longer glimmer' d; oft among 
Those trees, religious once and always green, 
That yet dream out their stories of old Rome 
Over the Alban lake ; oft met and hail'd. 
Where the precipitate Anio thunders down, 
And through the surging mist a poet's house 
(So some aver, and who would not believe ?) 
Reveals itself. 

Yet cannot I forget 
Him, who rejoiced me in those walks at eve, 
My earliest, pleasantest ; who dwells unseen, 
And in our northern clime, when all is still. 
Nightly keeps watch, nightly in bush or brake 
His lonely lamp rekindling.* Unlike theirs, 
His, if less dazzling, through the darkness 

knows 
No intermission ; sending forth its ray 
Through the green leaves, a ray serene and 

clear 
As Virtue's own. 






rf 



ITALY, 

down to my scanty fare at Terracina ; and how 
long I should have contemplated the lean 
thrushes in array before me, I cannot say, if a 
cloud of smoke, that drew the tears into my 
eyes, had not burst from the green and leafy 
boughs on the hearth-stone. ''Why," I ex- 
claimed, starting up from the table, " why did 
I leave my own chimney-corner ? — But am I not 
on the road to Brundasium ? And are not these 
the very calamities that befell Horace and Virgil, 
and Maecenas, and Ploiius, and Varius ? Horace 
laughed at them — then why should not I ? 
Horace resolved to turn them to account ; and 
Virgil — cannot we hear him observing, that to 
remember them will, by and by, be a pleasure ?" 
My soliloquy reconciled me at once to my fate ; 
and when, for the twentieth time, I had looked 
through the window on a sea sparkling with 
innumerable briUiants, a sea on which the he- 
roes of the Odyssey and the Eneid had sailed, 
I sat down as to a splendid banquet. My 
thrushes had the flavour of ortolans ; and I ate 
with an appetite I had not known before. 

" Who," I cried, as I poured out my last 
glass of F^alernian,* (for Falernian it was said to 
be, and in my eyes it ran bright and clear as a 
topaz-stone) — "who would remain at home, 
could he do otherwise ? Who would submit to 
tread that dull, but daily round; his hours for- 

♦ We were now within a few liours of the Campania 
Felix. On the colour and flavour of Falernian, C(Hisiilt 
Galen and Dioscorides. 



Ci 



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138 



ITALY. 



gotten as soon as spent?" and, opening my 
journal-book, and dipping my pen into my 
ink-horn, I determined, as far as I could, to 
justify myself and my countrymen in wander- 
ing over the face of the earth. " It may serve 
me," said I, " as a remedy in some future fit ot 
the spleen." 



Ours is a nation of travellers ;* and no vv^on- 
der, when the elements, air, water, fire, attend 
at our bidding, to transport us from shore to 
shore ; when the ship rushes into the deep, her 
track the foam as of some mighty torrent ; and, 
in three hours or less, we stand gazing and 
gazed at among a foreign people. None want 
an excuse. If rich, they go to enjoy, if poor, to 
retrench ; if sick, to recover ; if studious, to 
learn ; if learned, to relax from their studies. 
But whatever they may say, whatever they 
may believe, they go for the most part on the 
same errand ; nor will those who reflect, think 
that errand an idle one. 

Almost all men are over-anxious. No sooner 
do they enter the world, than they lose that 
taste for natural and simple pleasures, so re- 

* As indeed it always was, contributing those of every 
degree, from a milor.-: w'lih his suite to him whose only 
allendant is his shadow. Coryate in 1608 performed his 
journey on foot; and returning, hung up his slices in his 
village church as an Px-voto. Goldsmitli, a centiny and 
a half afterwards, followed in nearly the same path; 
playing a tune on his flute to procure admittance, when- 
ever he approached a cottage at night-fall. 



t 





r 




ITALY. 

markable in early life. Every hour do they 
ask themselves what progress they have made 
in the pursuit of wealth or honour ; and on they 
go as their fathers went before them, till, weary 
and sick at heart, they look back with a sigh of 
regret to the golden time of their childhood. 

Now travel, and foreign travel more particu- 
larly, restores to us in a great degree what we 
have lost. When the anchor is heaved, we 
double down the leaf; and for a while at least 
all effort is over. The old cares are left cluster- 
ing round the old objects ; and at every step, as 
we proceed, the slightest circumstance amuses 
and interests. All is new and strange. We 
surrender ourselves, and feel once again as 
children. Like them, we enjoy eagerly ; like 
them, when we fret, we fret only for the mo- 
ment ; and here indeed the resemblance is very 
remarkable, for if a journey has its pains as 
well as its pleasures (and there is nothing un- 
mixed in this world) the pains are no sooner 
over than they are forgotten, while the plea- 
sures live long in the memory. 

Nor is it surely without another advantage. 
If life be short, not so to many of us are its days 
and its hours. When the blood slumbers in 
the veins, how often do we wish that the earth 
would turn faster on its axis, that the sun 
would rise and set before it does, and, to escape 
from the weight of time, how many foUies, how 
many crimes are committed ! Men rush on 
danger, and even on death. Intrigue, play, 



?T 









foreign and domestic broil, such are their re- 
sources ; and, when these things fail, they 
destroy themselves. 

Now in travelling we multiplj'- events, and 
innocently. We set out, as it were, on our ad- 
ventures ; and many are those that occur to us, 
morning, noon, and night. The day we come 
to a place which we have long heard and read 
of, and in Italy we do so continually, it is an 
era in our lives ; and fi'om that moment the 
very name calls up a picture. How delightfully 
too does the luiowledge flow in upon us, and 
how fast!* Would he who sat in a corner of 
his library, poring over books and maps, learn 
more or so much in the time, as he who, with 
his eyes and his heart open, is receiving impres- 
sions, all daylong, from the things themselves ?t 
How accurately do they arrange themselves in 
our memory, towns, rivers, mountains ; and in 
what living colours do we recall the dresses, 
manners and customs of the people ! Our sight 
is the noblest of all our senses. ' It fills the 
mind with most ideas, converses with its ob- 
jects at the greatest distance, and continues 
longest in action without being tired." Our 

* To judge at once of a naiion, we have only to throw 
our eyes on the markets and the fields. If the markets 
are well supplied, Uie fields well culiivated, all is right. 
If otherwise, we may say, and say truly, these people 
are barbarous or oppressed. 

t Assuredly not, if the last has laid a proper foundation. 
Knowledge makes knowledge as money makes money, 
nor ever perhaps so fast as on a journey. 




!?: 



a 





ITALY. 

Bight is on the alert when we tra\ ;1 ; and its 
exercise is then so delightful, that we forget the 
profit in the pleasure. 

Like a river, that gathers, that refines as it 
runs, like a spring that takes its course through 
some rich vein of mineral, we improve and 
imperceptibly — nor in the head only, but in the 
heart. Our prejudices leave us, one by one. 
Seas and mountains are no longer our bounda- 
ries. We learn to love, and esteem, and ad- 
mire beyond them. Our benevolence extends 
itself with our knowledge. And must we not 
return better citizens than we went ? For the 
more we become acquainted with the institu- 
tions of other countries, the more highly must 
we value our own. 



I threw down my pen in triumph. " The 
question," said I, "is set to rest for ever. 
And yet — " 

"And yet — " I must still say. The wisest 
of men seldom went out of the walls of Athens ; 
and for that worst of evils, that sickness of the 
soul, to which we are most liable when most at 
our ease, is there not after all a surer and yet 
pleasanter remedy, a remedy for which we have 
only to cross the threshold ? A Piedmontese 
nobleman, into whose company I fell at Turin, 
had not long before experienced its efficacy : 
and his story, which he told me without re- 
serve, was as follows : 

" 1 was weary of hfe, and, after a day, such 



W( 



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rO 



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ITALY. 

as few have known and none would wish to re- 
member, was hurrying along the street to the 
river, when I felt a sudden check. I turned 
and beheld a little boy, who had caught the 
skirt of my cloak in his anxiety to solicit my 
notice. His look and manner were irresistible. 
Not less so was the lesson he had learnt. 

" ' There are six of us ; and we are dying for 
want of food.' — ' Why should I not,' said I to 
myself, ' relieve this wretched family ? I have 
the means ; and it will not delay me many 
minutes. But what if it does?' The scene of 
misery he conducted me to, I cannot describe. 
I threw them my purse ; and their burst of 
gratitude overcame me. It filled my eyes — i* 
went as a cordial to my heart. ' I will call. 
again to-morrow,' I. cried. ' Fool that I was, 
to think of leaving a world where such pleasure 
was to be had, and so cheaply !' " 

XII. 

THE FOUNTAIN. 

It was a well 
Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry ; 
And richly wrought with many a high relief, 
Greek sculpture — in some earlier day perhaps 
A tomb, and honour' d with a hero's ashes. 
The water from the rock fiU'd, overflow'd it ; 
Then das.h'd away, playing the prodigal, 
And soon was lost — stealing unseen, unheard, 
Through the long grass, and round the twisted 
roots 




H' 



ITALY. 

Of aged trees ; discovering where it ran 
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat, 
I threw me down ; admiring, as I lay, 
That shady nook, a singmg-place for birds, 
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers, 
More than enough to please a child a-Maying. 

The sun was down, a distant convent-bell 
Ringing the Angelas ; and now approach' d 
The hour for stir and village -gossip there, 
The hour Rebekah came, when from the well 
She drew with such alacrity to serve 
The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard 
Footsteps ; and lo, descending by a path 
Trodden for ages, many a nymph appear'd, 
Appear' d and vanish' d, bearing on her head 
Her earthen pitcher. It call'd up the day 
Ulysses landed there ; and long I gazed, 
Like one awaking in a distant time. 

At length there came the loveliest of them all, 
Her little brother dancing down before her ; 
And ever as he spoke, which he did ever, 
Turning and looking up in warmth of heart 
And brotherly affection. Stopping there, 
She join'd her rosy hands, and, filling them 
With the pure element, gave him to drink ; 
And, while he quench'd his thirst, standing on 

tiptoe, 
Look'd down upon him with a sister's smile. 
Nor stirr'd till he had done, fix'd as a statue. 



J^] 








ITALY. 

Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, 
Canova, 
ThoU hadst endow' d them with immortal youth ; 
And they had evermore hved undivided, 
Winning all hearts — of all thy works the fairest. 

XIII. 

BANDITTI. 

'T IS a wild life, fearful and full of change, 
The mountain-robber's. On the watch he lies, 
Levelling his carbine at the passenger ; 
And, when his work is done, he dares not sleep. 

Time was, the trade was nobler, if not honest ; 
When they that robb'd, were men of better faith 
Than kings or pontiffs, when, such reverence 
The Poet drew among the woods and wilds, 
A voice was heard, that never bade to spare, 
Crying aloud, " Hence to the distant hills ! 
Tasso approaches ; he, whose song beguiles 
The day of half its hours ; whose sorcery 
Dazzles the sense, turning our forest-glades 
To lists that blaze with gorgeous armory, 
Our mountain-caves to regal palaces. 
Hence, nor descend till he or his are gone. 
Let him fear nothing." 

When along the shore, 
And by the path that, wandering on its way. 
Leads through the fatal grove where Tully fell 
(Grey and o'ergrown, an ancient tomb is there), 
He came and they \vithdr.cw : they were a race 




«A 



II 




\ 






ft 



* 



ITALY. 




Careless of life in others and themselves. 
For they had learnt their lesson in a camp , 
But not ungenerous. 'T is no longer so. 
Now crafty, cruel, torturing e'er they slay 
The unhappy captive, and with bitter jests 
Mocking misfortune ; vain, fantastical. 
Wearing whatever glitters in the spoil ; 
And most devout, though when they kneel and 

pray. 
With every bead they could recount a murder. 
As by a spell they start up in array, 
As by a spell they vanish — theirs a band, 
Not as elsewhere of outlaws, but of such 
As sow and reap, and at the cottage-door 
Sit to receive, return the traveller's greeting, 
Now in the garb of peace, now silently 
Arming and issuing forth, led on by men 
Whose names on innocent lips are words of fear, 
Whose lives have long been forfeit- 
Some there are 
That, ere they rise to this bad eminence, 
Lurk, night and day, the plague-spot visible, 
The guilt that says. Beware ; and mark we now 
Him, where he lies, who crouches for his prey 
At the bridge-foot, in some dark cavity 
Scoop'd by the waters, or some gaping tomb, 
Nameless and tenantless, whence the red fox 
Slunk as he enter'd. There he broods in spleen 
Gnawing his beard ; his rough and sinewy 

frame 
O'erwritten with the story of his life : 
On his wan cheek a sabre-cut, well-earn'd 
10 




e 





1 



^ 



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In foreign w£Prfare ; on his breast the brand 
Indelible, burnt in when to the port 
He clank' d his chain, among a hundred more 
Dragg'd ignominiously ; on every limb 
Memorials of his glory and his shame, 
Stripes of the lash and honourable scars, 
And channels here and there worn to the bone 
By galling fetters. 

He comes slowly forth, 
Unkennelling, and up that savage dell 
Anxiously looks ; his cruise, an ample gourd 
(Duly replenish'd from the vintner's cask). 
Slung from his shoulder; in his breadth of belt 
Two pistols and a dagger yet uncleansed, 
A parchment scrawl'd with uncouth characters, 
And a small vial, his last remedy. 
His cure, when all things fail. No noise is heard, 
Save when the rugged bear and the gaunt wolf 
Howl in the upper region, or a fish 
licaps in the gulph beneath. — But now he kneels 
And (hke a scout when listening to the tramp 
Of horse or foot) lays his experienced ear 
Close to the ground, then rises and explores, 
Then kneels again, and, his short rifle-gun 
Against his cheek, waits patiently. 

Two Monks, 
Portly, grey-headed, on their gallant steeds, 
Descend where yet a mouldering cross o'erhangs 
The grave of one that from the precipice 
Fell in an evil hour. Their bridle-bells 
Ring merrily ; and many a loud, long laugh 
Re-echoes ; but at once the sounds are lost. 




\1 



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ITALY. 



147 



Unconscious of the good in store below, 
The holy fathers have turn'd off, and now 
Cross the brown heath, ere-long to wag their 

beards 
Before my lady-abbess, and discuss 
Things only known to the devout and pure 
O'er her spiced bowl — then shrive the sisterhood, 
Sitting by turns with an inclining ear 
In the confessional. 

He moves his lips 
As with a curse — then paces up and down, 
Now fast, now slow, brooding and muttering on; 
Gloomy alike to him the past, the future. 

_Bu t hark, the nimble tread of numerous feet f 
|riH|ys but a dappled herd, come down to slake 
j^^B|hirst in the cool wave. He turns and aims — 
Tn^Khecks himself, unwilling to disturb 
The sleeping echoes. 

Once again he earths; 
Slipping away to house with them beneath, 
His old companions in that hiding-place, 
The bat, the toad, the blind-worm, and the 

newt ; 
And hark, a footstep, firm and confident, 
As of a man in haste. Nearer it draws ; 
And now is at the entrance of the den. 
Ha! 'tis a comrade, sent to gather in 
The band for some great enterprise. 

Who wants 
A sequel, may read on. The unvarnish'd tale, 
That follows, will supply the place of one. 



^^m^ 

4 



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1^ 



'T was told me by the Marquis of Ravina, 
When in a blustering night he shelter'd me 
In that brave castle of his ancestors 
O'er Garigliano, and is such indeed 
As every day brings with it — in a land 
Where laws are trampled on, and lawless men 
Walk in the sun ; but it should not be lost, 
For it may serve to bind us to our country. 

XIV. 

AN ADVENTUR?]. 

Three days they lay in ambush ai my gate, 
Then sprung and led me captive. Many a wild 
We traversed ; but Rusconi, 'twas no less, 
March 'd by my si<de, and, when I thirsted, 

climb'd 
The chffs for water ; though, whene'er he spoke, 
'T was briefly, sullenly ; and on he led, 
Distinguish'd only by an amulet. 
That in a golden chain hung from his neck, 
A crystal of rare virtue. Night fell fast. 
When on a heath, black and immeasurable. 
He turn'd and bade them halt. 'T was where 

the earth 
Heaves o'er the dead — where erst some Alaric 
Fought his last fight, and every warrior threw 
A stone to tell for ages where he lay. 

Then all advanced, and, ranging in a square, 
Stretch' d forth their arms as on the holy cross 
From each to each their sable cloaks extending, 





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ITALY. 




149 




That, like the solemn hangings of a tent, 
Cover'd us round ; and in the midst I stood, 
Weary and faint, and tace to face with one. 
Whose voice, whose look dispenses life and 

death, 
Whose heart knows no relentings. Instantly 
A light was kindled, and the Bandit spoke. 
'• I know thee. Thou hast sought us, for the 

sport 
Slipping thy blood-hounds with a hunter's cry, 
And thou 4iast found at last. Were I as thou, 
I in thy grasp as thou art now in ours. 
Soon should I make a midnight-spectacle. 
Soon, limb by limb, be mangled on a wheel, 
Then gibbeted to blacken for the vultures. 
But I would teach thee better — how to spare. 
Write as I dictate. If thy ransom comes, 
Thou livest. If not — ^but answer not, I pray, 
Lest thou provoke me. I may strike thee dead ; 
And know, young man, it is an easier thing 
To do it than to say it. Write, and thus." — 

I wrote. '"Tiswell," he cried. " Apeasant- 

boy. 
Trusty and swift of foot, shall bear it hence. 
Meanwhile lie down and rest. This cloak of 

mine 
Will serve thee ; it has weather' d many a storm." 
The watch was set ; and twice it had been 

changed. 
When morning broke, and a wild bird, a hawk 
Flew in a circle, screaming. I look'd up, 



ti^K.'^. 






ITALY. 

And all were gone, save him who now kepx 

guard, 
And on his arms lay musing. Young he seem'd, 
And sad, as though he could indulge at will 
Some secret sorrow. " Thou shrink' st back," 

he said. 
" Well may'st thou, lying, as thou dost, so near 
A ruffian — one for ever link'd and bound 
To guilt and infamy. There was a time 
When he had not perhaps been deem'd unwor- 
thy, 
When he had watch'd that planet to its setting, 
And dwelt with pleasure on the meanest thing 
That Nature has given birth to. Now 'tis past. 

" Wouldst thou know more ? My story is an 

old one. 
I loved, was scorn'd ; I trusted, was betray'd; 
And in my anguish, my necessity. 
Met with the fiend, the tempter — in Rusconi. 
* Why thus ?' he cried. ' Thou wouldst be free, 

and darest not. 
Come and assert thy birth-right while thou canst, 
A robber's cave is better than a dungeon; 
And death itself, what is it at the worst. 
What, but a harlequin's leap?' Him I had 

known. 
Had served with, suffer 'd with; and on the walls 
Of Capua, when the moon went down, I swore 
Allegiance on his dagger. 

Dost thou ask 
How I have kept my oath ? Thou shaltbe told, 




;^ 



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ITALY. 

Cost what it may. — But grant me, I implore, 
Grant me a passport to some distant land, 
That I may never, never more be named. 
Thou wilt, I know thou wilt. 

Two months ago, 
When on a vineyard-hill we lay conceal' d 
And scattered up and down as we were wont, 
I heard a damsel singing to herself, 
And soon espied her, coming all alone. 
In her first beauty. Up a path she came 
Leafy and intricate, singing her song, 
A song of love, by snatches ; breaking off 
If but a ilower, an insect in the sun 
Pleased for an instant ; then as carelessly 
The strain resuming, and, wliere'er she stopt. 
Rising on tiptoe underneath the boughs 
To pluck a grape in very wantonness. 
Her look, her mien and maiden-ornaments 
Show'd gentle birth ; and, step by step, she 

came 
Nearer and nearer to the dreadful snare. 
None else were by ; and, as I gazed unseen, 
Her youth, her innocence and gaiety 
Went to my heart ; and, starting up, I cried, 
'Fly — for your life !' Alaa, she shriek' d, she 

fell; 
And, as I caught her falling, ail rush'd forth. 

A Wood-nymph !' said Rgsconi. 'By the light, 
Lovely as Hebe ! Lay her in the shade.' 
I heard liim not. I stood as in a trance. 
* What,' he exclaim'd with a malicious smile, 
' Wouldst thou rebel ?' I did as he required. 



t 



^. 




ITALY. 

' Now bear her hence to the weli-head below. 
A few cold drops will animate this marble. 
Go ! 'T is ail office all will envy thee ; 
But thou hast earn'd it.' 

As I St agger' d down, 
Unwilling to surrender her sweet body ; 
Her golden hair dishevell'd on a neck 
Of snow, and her fair eyes closed as in sleep, 
Frantic with love, with hate, ' Great God!' I 

cried 
(I had almost forgotten how to pray) 
' Why may I not, while yet — while yet I can. 
Release her from a thraldom worse than death V 
'Twas done as soon as said. I kiss'd her 

brow 
And smote her with my dagger. A short cry 
She utter'd, but she stirr'd not ; and to heaven 
Her gentle spirit fled. 'T was where the path 
In its descent turn'd suddenly. No eye 
Observed me, though their steps were following 

fast. 
But soon a yell broke forth, and all at once 
Levell'd their deadly aim. Then I had ceased 
To trouble or be troubled, and had now 
»Would I were there !) been slumbering in my 

grave 
Had not Rusconi with a terrible shout 
Thrown himself in between us, and exclaim'd, 
Grasping my arm, ' 'T is bravely, nobly done ! 
Is it for deeds like these thou wear'st a sword ? 
Was this the business that thou earnest upon ? 
"But 't is his first offence, and let it pass. 




^ 



I 



h 




1 



m 




ITALY. 

Like the young tiger he has tasted blood, 
And may do much hereafter. He can strike 
Home to the hiU.' Then in an undertone, 
' Thus wouldst thou justify the pledge I gave, 
When in the eyes of all I read distrust ? 
For once,' and on his cheek, methought, I saw 
The blush of virtue, ' I will save thee, Albert ; 
Agam, I cannot.' " 

Ere his tale was told. 
As on the heath we lay, my ransom came ; 
And in six days, with no ungrateful mind, 
Albert was sailing on a quiet sea. 
— But the night wears, and thou art much in 

need 
Of rest. The young Antonio with his torch, 
Is waiting to conduct thee to thy chamber. 

XV. 

NAPLES. - 

This region, surely, is not of the earth. * 
Was it not dropt from heaven. Not a grove, 
Citron, or pine, or cedar, not a grot 
Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine. 
But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings 
On the clear wave some image of delight, 
Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers. 
Some ruin'd temple or fallen monument, 
To muse on as the bark is gliding by, 
And be it mine to muse there mine to glide, 

♦ Un pezzo di cielo caduto in terra.— Sa?ma«oro. 



% 



ITALY. 





J^ 



From daybreak, when the mountain oales his fire 
Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top, 
Till then invisible, a smoke ascends, 
Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat, 
When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood, 
Was with his household sacrificing there — 
From day-break to that hour, the last and best. 
When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth, 
Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow. 
And, when the nets are thrown, the evening 

hymn 
Steals o'er the trembling waters. 

Everywhere 
Fable and truth have shed, in rivalry. 
Each her peculiar influence. Fable came, 
And laugh' d and sung, arraying Truth in 

flowers. 
Like a young child her grandam. Fable came ; 
Earth, sea and sky reflecting, as she flew, 
A thousand, thousand colours not their own : 
And at her bidding, lo ! a dark descent 
To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields. 
Those fields with ether pure and purple light 
Ever mvested, scenes by him described,* 
Who here was wont to wander, record 
What they reveal'd, and on the western shore 
Sleeps in a silent grove, o'erlooking thee, 
Beloved Parthenope. 

Yet here, methinks, 
Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape 

* Virgil. 





^l' 



c 



Filling the mind by turns with awe and Lve, 
By turns inclining to wild ecstacy, 
And soberest meditation. 

Here the vines 
Wed, each lier elm, and o'er the golden grain 
Hang their luxuriant clusters, chequering 
The sunshine; where, when cooler shadows fall; 
And the mild moon her fairy net-work weaves, 
The lute, or mandoline, accompanied 
By many a voice yet sweeter than their own, 
Kindles, nor slowly ; and the dance* displays 
The gentle arts and witcheries of love, 
Its hopes and fears and feignings, till the youth 
Drops on his knee as vanquish'd, and the maid, 
Her tambourine uplifting with a grace, 
Nature's and Nature's only, bids him rise. 

But here the mighty Monarch underneath, 
He in his palace of fire, diffuses round 
A dazzling splendour. Here, unseen, unheard, 
Opening another Eden in the wild, 
He works his vvonders ; save, when issuing 

forth 
In thunder, he blots out the sun, the sky, 
And, minghng all things earthly as in scorn, 
Exalts the valley, lays the mountain low, 
Pours many a torrent from his burning lake, 
And in an hour of universal mirth, 
What time the trump proclaims the festival, 
Buries some capital city, there to sleep 

♦The Tarantella. 






if 



«^t 









ITALV. 

The sleep of ages — till a plow, a spade 
Disclose the secret, and the eye of day 
Glares coldly on the streets, the skeletons, 
Each in his place, each in his gay attire, 
And eager to enjoy. 

Let us go round, 
And let the sail be slack, the course be slow, 
That at our leisure, as we coast along. 
We may contemplate, and from every scene 
Receive its influence. The Cumaean towers, 
There did they rise, sun-gilt ; and here thy 

groves 
Dehcious Baiee. Here (what would they not ?) 
The masters of the earth, unsatisfied. 
Built in the sea ; and now the boatman steers 
O'er many a crypt and vault yet glimmering, 
O'er many a broad and indestructible arch, 
The deep foundations of their palaces ; 
Nothing now heard ashore, so great the change, 
Save when the sea-mew clamours, or the owl 
Hoots in the temple. 

What the mountainous Isle,* 
Seen in the South? 'Tis where a Monster 

dvvelt,t 
Who hurl'd his victims from the topmost cliff; 
Then and then only merciful, so slow, 
So subtle were the tortures they endured. 
Fearing and fear'd he lived, cursing and curs' d ; 
And still the dungeons in the rock breathe out 
Darkness, distemper. — Strange, that one so vile 




* Capreae 



t Tiberius. 



I 




?, 



a 



'} 




ITALY. 

Should from hi? den strike terror through the 

world I 
Should, where withdrawn in his decrepitude, 
Say to the noblest, be they where they might, 
" Go from the earth !" and from the earth they 

went. 
Yet such things were— and will be, when man- 
kind. 
Losing all virtue, lose all energy ; 
And for the loss incur the penahy, 
Trodden down and trampled. 

Let us turn the prow, 
And in the track of him who went to die,* 
Traverse this valley of waters, landing where 
A waking dream awaits us. At a step 
Two thousand years roll backward, and we 

stand. 
Like those so long within that awful place, t 
Immovable, nor asking, Can it be ? 

Once did I linger there alone, till day 
Closed, and at length the calm of twilight came, 
So grateful, yet so solemn ! At the fount, 
Just where the three ways meet, I stood and 

look'd, 
('T was near a noble house, the house of Pansa), 
And all was still as in the long, long night 
That follow'd, when the shower of ashes fell. 
When they that sought Pompeii, sought in vain; 
It was not to be found. But now a ray, 



♦ The Elder Pliny. 



t Pompeii. 



/:\ 



^/^ y^. 



yO 



*»> 



a 



158 



ITALY. 



^ 
t 



Bright and yet brighter, on the pavement 

glanced, 
And on the wheel-track worn for centuries, 
And on the stepping-stones from side to side, 
O'er which the maidens, with their water-urns, 
Were wont to trip so lightly. Full and clear, 
The moon was rising, and at once reveal' d 
The name of every dweller, and his craft ; 
Shining throughout with an unusual lustre, 
And lighting up this City of the Dead. 

Here lived a miller ; silent and at rest 
His mill-stones now. In old companionship 
Still do they stand as on the day he went. 
Each ready for its oifice — but he comes not. 
And here, hard by, (where one in idleness 
Has stopp'd to scrawl a ship, an armed man ; 
And in a tablet on the wall we read 
Of shows ere long to be) a sculptor wrought, 
Nor meanly; blocks, half chisell'd into hfe, 
Waiting his call. Here long, as yet attests 
The trodden floor, an olive-merchant drew 
From many an ample jar, no more replenish'd ; 
And here from his a vintner served his guests 
Largely, the stain of his o'erflowing cups 
Fresh on the marble. On the bench, beneath, 
They sate, and quaflf'd, and look'd on them 

that pass'd, 
Gravely discussing the last news from Rome. 

But lo, engraven on a threshold stone. 
That word of courtesy, so sacred once. 



r* 




Hail I At a master's greeting we may enter. 

And lo, a fairy palace ! everywhere, 

As through the courts and chambers we advance, 

Floors of mosaic, walls of arabesque, 

And columns clustering in patrician splendour. 

But hark, a footstep ! May we not intrude ? 

And now, methinks, I hear a gentle laugh, 

And gentle voices mingling as in converse ! 

— And now a harp-string as struck carelessly, 

And now — along the corridoi it comes — 

I cannot err, a filling as of baths ! 

— Ah, no, 't is but a mockery of the sense, 

Idle and vain ! We are but where we were ; 

Still wandering in a City of the Dead ! 



4l 



It 



iR 






XVI. 

THE BAG OF GOLD. 

I DINE very often with the good old Cardinal 
*** and, I should add, with his cats ; for they 
always sit at his table, and are much the gravest 
of the company. His beaming countenance 
makes us forget his age ; nor did I ever see it 
clouded till yesterday, when, as we were con- 
templating the sunset from his terrace, he hap- 
pened, in the course of our conversation; to 
allude to an atfecting circumstance in his early 
life. 

He had just left the University of Palermo 
and was entering the army, when he became 
acquainted with a young lady of great beauty 
and merit, a Sicilian of a family as illustrious as 



Mfl^ 



^ 



ISO 



ITALY. 



It 






Mf^ 



his own. Living near each other, they were 
often together ; and, at an age hke theirs, 
fi-iendship soon turns to love. But his father, 
for what reason I forget, refused his consent to 
their union ; till, alarmed at the declining health 
of his son, he promised to oppose it no longer, 
if, after a separation of three years, they con- 
tinued as much in love as ever. 

Relying on that promise, he said, I set out on 
a long journey, but in my absence the usual 
arts were resorted to. Our letters were inter- 
cepted ; and false rumours were spread — first 
of my indifference, then of my inconstancy, 
then of my marriage with a rich heiress of 
Sienna ; and, when at length I returned to 
make her my own, I found her in a convent of 
UrsuHne Nuns. She had taken the veil; and 
I, said he with a sigh — what else remained for 
me ? — I went into the church. 

Yet many, he continued, as if to turn the 
conversation, very many haye been happy 
though we were not ; and, if I am not abusing 
an old man's privilege, let me tell you a story 
with a better catastrophe. It was told to me 
when a boy ; and you may not be unwilling to 
hear it, for it bears some resemblance to that of 
the Merchant of Venice. 

We were now arrived at a pavilion that com- 
manded one of the noblest prospects imaginable ; 
the mountains, the sea, and the islands illumi- 
nated by the last beams of day ; and, sitting 
down there, he proceeded with his usual viva- 



\1 



OT 



m 



tf^, 



M 




ITALY. 



161 



city ; for the sadness, which had come across 
him, was gone. 

There lived in the fourteenth century, near 
Bologna, a widow-lady of the Lambertini family, 
called Madonna Lucrezia, who in a revolution 
of the state had known the bitterness of poverty, 
and had even begged her bread ; kneeling day 
after day like a statue at the gate of the cathe- 
dral ; her rosary in her left hand, and her right 
held out for charity ; her long black veil con- 
cealing a face that had once adorned a court, 
and had received the homage of as many son- 
nets as Petrarch has written on Laura. 

But fortune had at last relented ; a legacy 
from a distant relation had come to her relief; 
and she was now the mistress of a small inn at 
the foot of the Appennines ; where she enter- 
tained as well as she could, and where those 
only stopped who were contented with a little. 
The house was still standing, when in my 
youth I passed that way ; though the sign of 
the White Cross, the Cross of the Hospitallers, 
was no longer to be seen over the door ; a sign 
which she had taken, if we may believe the 
tradition there, in honour of a maternal uncle, a 
grand-master of that Order, whose achieve- 
ments in Palestine she would sometimes relate. 
A mountain-stream ran through the garden ; and 
at no great distance, where the road turned on its 
way to Bologna, stood a little chapel, in which a 
lamp was always burning before a picture of the 
11 





262 



ITALY. 



Virgin, a picture of great antiquity, the work of 
some Greek artist. 

Here she was dwelling, respected by all who 
knew her; when an event took place, which 
threw her into the deepest affliction. It was at 
noon-day in September that three foot-travellers 
arrived, and, seating themselves on a bench 
under her vine-trellis, were supplied with a 
flagon of Aleatico by a lovely girl, her only 
child, the image of her former self. The 
eldest spoke like a Venetian, and his beard 
was short and pointed after the fashion of 
Venice. In his demeanour he affected great 
courtesy, but his look inspired little confidence ; 
for when he smiled, which he did continually, 
it was with his lips only, not v^^ith his eyes; 
and they were always turned from yours. His 
companions were bluff and frank in their man- 
ner, and on their tongues had many a soldier's 
oath. In their hats they wore a medal, such as 
in that age was often distributed in war ; and 
they were evidently subalterns in one of those 
Free Bands which were always ready to serve 
in any quarrel, if a service it could be called, 
where a battle was little more than a mockery ; 
and the slain, as on an opera-stage, were up and 
fighting to-morrow. Overcome with the heat, 
they threw aside their cloaks ; and, with their 
gloves tucked under their belts, continued for 
some time in earnest conversation. 

At length they rose to go ; and the Venetians 
thus addressed their Hostess. ' ' Excellent Lady, 



^^ 





ITALY. 163 

may we leave under your roof, for a day or two, 

t ilv^'^< "r ^'^^ •" ;' You may," she replied 
gaiiy. Bm remember, we fasten only with a 
iatch. Bars and bolts, we have none m our 
village ; and, if we had, where would be your 
security?" ^ 

"In your word. Lady." 
" But what if I died to-night ? Where would 
wnnl. . i''1 ''''/ le^ughmg. " The money 
would go to the church ; for none could claim it." 
i-erhaps you will favour us with an ac- 
knowledgment." 

" If you will write it.' 

An acknowledgment was written according- 
iy, and she signed it before Master Bartolo, the 
V 1 age physician who had just called by chance 
to learn the news of the day; the gold to be 
delivered when applied for, but to be delivered 
ihf se were the words) not to one-nor to two- 
but to the three ; words wisely introduced by 
those to whom it belonged, • knowing what 
they knew of each other. The gold they had 
just released from a miser's chest in Peruo-ia • 
morJ were now on a scent that promised 

They and their shadows were no sooner de- 

parted, than the Venetian returned, saying, 

Give me leave to set my seal on the bag, as 

he others have done;" and she placed it on a 

table before him. But in that moment she was 

calisd away to receive a Cavalier, who had just 



'fn^ 





ITALY. 

dismounted from his horse ; and, when she 
came back, it was gone. The temptation had 
proved irresistible ; and the man and the money 
had vanished together. 

" Wretched woman that I am !" she cried, as 
in an agony of grief she fell on her daughter's 
neck, " What will becomeof us ? Are we again 
to be cast out into the wide world ? — Unhappy 
child, would that thou hadst never been born !" 
and all day long she lamented ; but her tears 
availed her little. The others were not slow in 
returning to claim their due ; and there were no 
tidings of the thief: he had fled far away with 
his plunder. A process against her was instantly 
begun in Bologna ; and what defence could she 
make ? — how release herself from the obligation 
of the bond ? Wilfully or in negligence she had 
parted with it to one, when she should have 
kept it for all ; and inevitable ruin awaited her ! 

"Go, Gianetla," said she to her daughter, 
' ' take this veil which your mother has worn 
and wept under so often, and implore the Coun- 
sellor Calderino to plead for us on the day of 
trial. He is generous, and will listen to the un- 
fortunate. But, if he will not, go from door to 
door ; Monaldi cannot refuse us. Make haste, 
nty child ; but remember the chapel as you pasa 
by it. Nothing prospers without a prayer." 

Alas, she went, but in vain. These were re- 
tained against them ; those demanded more 
than they had to give ; and all bade them despair. 



"flm, 





ITALY. 

What was to be done ? No advocate ; and the 
cause to come on to-morrow ! 

Now Gianetta had a lover ; and he was a 
student of the law, a young man of great pro- 
mise. Lorenzo MarteUi. He had studied long 
and diligently under that learned lawyer, Gio- 
vanni Andreas, who, though little of stature, 
was great in renown, and by his contemporaries 
was called the Arch-doctor, the Rabbi of Doc- 
tors, the Light of the World. Under him he 
had studied, sitting on the same bench with Pe- 
trarch ; and also under his daughter, Novella, 
who would often lecture to the scholars, when 
her father was otherwise engaged, placing her- 
self behind a small curtain, lest her beauty 
should divert their thoughts ; a precaution in this 
instance at least unnecessary, Lorenzo having 
lost his heart to another.* 

To him she flies in her necessity ; but of what 
assistance can he be ? He has just taken his 
place at the bar, but he has never spoken ; and 
how stand up alone, unpractised and unprepared 
as he is, against an array that would alarm the 
most experienced? — -'Were I as mighty as I 
am weak," said he, "my fears for you would 
make me as nothing. But I will be there, 



4."^ 



* Ce pourroit etre, says Bayle, la maliere d'un joli 
probleme on pourroit examiner si cette fiUe avancoit, ou 
si elle retardoit le profit de ses auditeurs, en leur cachant 
son beau visage, lly auroit cent choses a dire pour et 
conlre la-dessus. 



c< 



^^ 





ITALY. 

Gianetta ; and may the Friend oi the Friend- 
less give me strength in that hour ! Even now 
my heart fails me ; but, come what will, 
while I have a loaf to share, you and your mother 
shall never want. I will beg through the world 
for you." 

The day arrives, and the court assembles. 
The claim is stated, and the evidence given. 
And now the defence is called for — but none is 
made ; not a syllalile is uttered ; and, after a 
pause and a consultation of some minutes, the 
Judges are proceeding to give judgment, silence 
having been proclaimed in the Court, when Lo- 
renzo rises and thus addresses them. 

" Reverend Signors. Young as I am, may I 
venture to speak before you ? 1 would speak in 
behalf of one who has none else to help her ; 
and I will not keep you long. 

"Much has been said; much on the sacred 
nature of the obligation — and we acknowledge 
it in its full force. Let it be fulfilled, and to the 
last letter. It is what we solicit, what we re- 
quire. But to whom is the bag of gold to be 
delivered ? What says the bond ? Not to one — 
not to two — but to the three. Let the three 
stand forth and claim it." 

From that day, (for who can doubt the issue?) 
none were sought, none employed, but the sub- 
tle, the eloquent Lorenzo. Wealth followed 
Fame ; nor need I say how soon he sat at his 
marriage-feast, or who sat beside him. 



1 



r 




•^ 





ITALY. 

A CHARACTER. 

One oi two things Montrioli may have, 
My envy or compassion. Both he cannoL 
Yet on he goes, numbering as miseries, 
What least of all he would consent to lose, 
What most indeed he prides himself upon; 
And, for not having, most despises me. 
" At morn the minister exacts an hour ; 
At noon the king. Then comes the council- 
board ; 
And then the chase, the supper. When, ah ! 

when. 
The leisure and the liberty I sigh for ? 
Not when at home ; at home a miscreant-crew, 
That now no longer serve me, mine the service. 
And then that old hereditary bore, 
The steward, his stories longer than his rent-roll. 
Who enters, quill in ear, and, one by one, 
As though I lived to write and wrote to live. 
Unrolls his leases for my signature." 

He clanks his fetters to disturb my peace. 
Yet who would wear them, and become the slave 
Of wealth and power, renouncing willingly 
His freedom, and the hours that fly so fast, 
A burden or a curse when misemploy'd, 
But to the wise how precious ! — every day 
A little life, a blank to be inscribed 
With gentle deeds, such .as in after-time 
Console, rejoice, whene'er we turn the leaf 



^, 



68 



ITALY. 



Tr> read them ? All, wherever in the scale, 
Have, be they high or low, or rich or poor, 
Inherit they a sheep-hook or a sceptre, 
iVluch to be grateful for ; but most has he. 
Born in that middle sphere, that temperate zone 
Where Knowledge lights his lamp, there most 

secure. 
And Wisdom comes, if ever, she who dwells 
Above the clouds, above the firmament, 
That Seraph sitting in the heaven of heavens. 

What men most covet, wealth, distinction, 
power, 
Are baubles nothing worth, that only serve 
To rouse us up, as children in the schools 
Are roused up to exertion. The reward 
Is in the race we run, not in the prize ; 
And they, the few, that have it ere they earn it, 
Having by favour or inh-eritance, 
These dangerous gifts placed in their idle hands, 
And all that should avvait on worth well-tried, 
All in the glorious days of old reserved 
For manhood most mature or reverend age. 
Know not, nor ever caa, the generous pride, 
That glows in him who on himself relies, 
Entering the lists of life. 

XVIII. 



M 



SORRENTO. 

He who sets sail from Naples, when the wind 
Blows fragrance from Posilipo may soon 




ifWi 




ITALY. 

Crossing from side to side that beautiful lake, 
Land underneath the cliff, where once among 
The children gathering shells along the shore, 
One laugh'dandplay'd, unconscious of his fate;* 
His to drink deep of swrow, and, through life, 
To be the scorn of them that knew him not, 
^pQ Trampling alike the giver and his gift, 

■ ""^^ The gift a pearl precious, inestimable, 
A lay divine, a lay of love and war. 
To charm, ennoble, and, from age to age, 
Sweeten the labour, when the oar was plied 
Or on the Adrian or the Tuscan sea. 

\'^ There would I linger — then go forth again, 

And hover round that region unexplored. 
Where to Salvator (when, as some relate, 
f| V By chance or choice he led a bandit's life, 

I'.i .^..!???i Yet oft withdrew, alone and unobserved, 
To wander through those awful solitudes) 
Nature reveal'd herself. Unveil'dshe stood, 
In all her wildness, all her majesty, 
As in that elder time, ere Man was made. 



There would I linger — then go forth again ; 
And he who steers due east, doubling the cape, 
Discovers, in a crevice of the rock, 
The fishing-town, Amalfi. (58) Haply there 
A heaving bark, an anchor on the strand. 
May tell him what it is ; but what it was, 
Cannot be told so soon. 




j:ii 





ITALY. 



The time has been, 
When on the quays along the Syrian coast, 
'Twas ask'd and eagerly, at break of dawn, 
"What ships are from Amalfi?" when her 

coins, 
Silver and gold, circled from clime to clime ; 
From Alexandria southward to Sennaar, 
And eastward, through Damascus and Cabul 
And Samarcand, to thy great wall, Cathay. 

Then were the nations by her wisdom sway'd; 
And every crime on every sea was judged 
According to her judgments. In her port 
Prows, strange, uncouth, from Nile and Niger 

met, 
People of various feature, various speech ; 
And in their countries many a house of prayer, 
And many a shelter, where no shelter was. 
And many a well, like Jacob's in the wild, 
Rose at her bidding. Then in Palestine, 
By the way-side, in sober grandeur stood 
An Hospital, that, night and day, received 
The pilgrims of the west; and, when 'twas 

ask'd, 
" Who are the noble founders?" every tongue 
At once replied, " The merchants of Amalfi." 
That Hospital, when Godfrey scaled the walls, 
Sent forth its holy men in complete steel ; 
And hence, the cowl relinquish' d for the helm, 
That chosen band, valiant, invincible. 
So long renown' d as champions of the Cross, 
In Rhodes, in Malta. 





u 



^ 



ITALY. 



171 




For three hundred years, 
There, unapproach'd but from the deep, they 

dvveh ; 
Assail'd for ever, yet from age to age 
Acknowledging no master. From the deep 
They gather' d in their harvests ; brmging home, 
In the same ship, rehcs of ancient Greece, (SB'" 
That land of glory where their fathers lay, 
Grain from the golden vales of Sicily, 
And Indian spices. When at length they fell, 
Losing their liberty, they left mankind 
A legacy, compared with which the wealth 
Of Eastern Kings — what is it in the scale ? — 
The mariner's compass. 

They are now forgot. 
And with them all they did, all they endured, 
Strugghng with fortune. When Sicardi stood, 
And, with a shout like thunder, cried, " Come 

forth. 
And serve me in Salerno !" forth they came. 
Covering the sea, a mournful spectacle ; 
The women wailing, and the heavy oar 
Falling unheard. Not thus did they return, 
The tyrant slain ; though then the grass of years 
Grew in their streets. 

There now to him who sails 
Under the shore, a few white villages. 
Scatter' d above, below, some in the clouds. 
Some on the margin of the dark-blue sea, 
And glittering through their lemon-groves, an- 
nounce 
The region of Amalfi. Then, half- fallen, 



^^ 



M 




% 





A lonely watch-tower on the precipice, 

Their ancient land-mark, comes. Long may it 

last ; 
And to the seaman in a distant age, 
Though now he little thinks how large his debt. 
Serve for their monument ! (60) 

XIX. 

P^STUM. 

They stand between the mountains and the 

sea ; 
Awful memorials, but of whom we know not !* 
The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck. 
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak. 
Points to the work of magic and moves on. 
Time was they stood along the crowded street, 
Temples of Gods 1 and on their ample steps 
What various habits, various tongues beset 
The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice ! 
I'ime was perhaps the third was sought for 

Justice ; 
And here the accuser stood, and there the 

accused ; 
And here the judges sate, and heard, and judged. 
All silent now ! — as in the ages past, 
Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust. 

* The temples of Paesium are three in number ; and 
have survived, nearly nine cenluriea, the total destruc- 
tion of the city. Tradition is silent concerning thera; 
but they must have existed now between two and three 
thousand ytsars. 



4f 




'>^ 





ITALY. 

How many centuries did the sun go round 
From Mount Alburnus to the 'I'yrrhene sea, 
While, by some spell render'd invisible, 
Or, if approach'd, approached by him alone 
Who saw as though he saw not, they rehiaui d 
As in the darkness of a sepulchre, 
Waiting the appointed time ! All, all wlJun 
Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right, 
And taken to herself what man renounce J , 
No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, 
But with thick ivy hung or branching fen: , 
Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest 
verdure ! 

From my youth upward have I longed to tread 
This classic ground — And am I here at last i 
Wandering at will through the long porticoes, 
And catching, as through some majestic gtuve, 
Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like, 
Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-w»y 

up, 
Towns like the living rock from which they 

grew ? 
A cloudy region, black and desolate, 
Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.* 

The air is sweet with violets, running wild 
'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals ; 
Sweet as when TuUy, writing down his 
thoughts, 

♦ Spartacus. See Plutarch in the life '■f Crassus 



Uv 



'\. 




ITALY. 

Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost, 
(Turning to thee, divine Philosophy, 
Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul) 
Sail'd slowly by, two thousand years ago, 
For Athens ; when a ship, if north-east winds 
Blew from the Faestan gardens, slack'd her 
course. 

On as he moved along the level shore, 
These temples, in their splendour eminent 
Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers, 
Reflecting back the radiance of the west, 
Well might He dream of Glory ! — Now, coil'd 



The serpent sleeps within them ; the she-wolf 
Suckles her young ; and, as alone I stand 
In this, the nobler pile, the elements 
Of earth and air its only floor and covering, 
How solemn is the stillness ! Nothing stirs 
Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round 
On the rough pediment to sit and sing ; 
Or the green lizard rustling through the grass, 
And up the fluted shaft with short quick mo- 
tion. 
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made. 

In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk 
Seen at his setting, and a flood of light 
Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries, 
(Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, 
Across the innumerable columns flung) 



.^( 



^ 



ftf^l 




In such an hour he came, who saw and told, 
Led by the mighty Genius of the Place.* 

Walls of some capital city first appear' d, 
Half razed, half sunk, or scatter'd as in scorn; 
—And what within them i what but in the 

midst 
These Three in more than their original 

grandeur 
And, round about, no stone upon another ? 
As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, 
And, turning, left them to the elements. 

^-^ 'T is said a stranger in the days of old 

(Some say a Dorian, some a Sybarite ; 
But distant things are ever lost in clouds), 
'Tis said a stranger came, and, with his plow, 
Traced out the site ; and Posidonia rose, (61) 
Severely great, Neptune, the tutelar God; 
A Homer's language murmuring in her streets, 
And in her haven many a mast from Tyre. 
Then came another, an unbidden guest. 
He knock'd and enter'd with a train in arms ; 
And all was changed, her very name and 

language. 
The Tyrian merchant, shipping at his door 
Ivory and gold, and silk, and frankincense, 
Sail'd as before, but sailing, cried " For 

Paestum !" 



♦ They are said to have been discovered by accident 
about the middle of the last ceatury. 






& 




ITALY. 

And now a Virgil, now an Ovid sung 
Pfestvim's twice-blowing roses ; while, within, 
Parents and children mourn' d — and, every year, 
('T was on the day of some old festival) 
Met to give way to tears, and once again, 
Talk'd in the ancient tongue of things gone by.* 
At length an Arab climb'd the battlements, 
Slaying the sleepers in the dead of night ; 
And from all eyes the glorious vision fled ! 
Leaving a place lonely and dangerous. 
Where whom the robber spares, a deadlier foef* 
Strikes at unseen — and at a time when joy 
Opens the heart, when summer-skies are blue, 
And the clear air is soft and delicate ; 
For then the demon works — then with that air 
The thoughtless wretch drinks in a subtle 

poison 
Lulling to sleep ; and, when he sleeps, he dies. 



But what are These still standing in the midst? 
The earth has rock'd beneath ; the Thunder- 
stone 
Passed through and through, and left its traces 

there. 
Yet still they stand as by some Unknown 

Charter ! 
Oh, they are Nature's own ! and, as allied 
To the vast Mountains and the eternal Sea, 
They want no written history ; theirs a voice 
For ever speaking to the heart of Man ! 



* At^enseus, xiv. 




t The Mal'ana. 







'-? 



I 



\i^. 



** What hangs behind that 
" Wouldst thou learn? 
If thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'T is by some 
Believed to be his master-work, who look'd 
Beyond the grave, and on the chapel- wall, 
As though the day were come, were come and 

past, 
Drew the Last Judgment.*— But the Wisest err. 
He who ill secret wrought, and gave it life. 
For life is surely there and visible change, 
Life, such as none could of himself impart, 
(They who behold it, go not as they came, 
But meditate for many and many a day) 
Sleeps in the vault beneath. We know not 

much ; 
But what we know, we will communicate, 
'Tis in an ancient record of the House ; 
And may it make thee tremble, lest thou fall ! 

Once — on a Christmas-eve — ere yet the roof 
Rung with the hymn of the Nativity, 
There came a stranger to the convent-gate, 
And ask'd admittance ; ever and anon, 
As if he sought what most he fear'd to find. 
Looking behind him. When within the walls, 
These walls so sacred and inviolable, 
StiU did he look behind him ; oft and long, 

♦ Michael Angelo. 
12 







m 












With haggard eye and curling, quivering lip, 
Catching at vacancy. Between the fits, 
For here, 'tis said, he linger'd while he lived, 
He would discourse, and with a mastery, 
A charm by none resisted, none explain' d, 
Unfelt before ; but when his cheek grew pale, 
All was forgotten. Then, howe'er employed, 
He would break off, and start as if he caught 
A glimpse of something that would not be gone ; 
And turn asid gaze, and shrink into himself. 
As though the Fiend was there, and, face to face, 
Scowl' d o'er his shoulder. 

Most devout he was ; 
Most unremitting in the Services ; 
Then^ only then, untroubled, unassail'd ; 
And, to beguile a melancholy hour, 
Would sometimes exercise that noble art 
He learnt in Florence ; with a master's hand, 
As to this day the Sacristy attests, 
Painting the wonders of the Apocalypse. 

At length he sunk to rest, and in his cell 
Left, when he went, a work in secret done, 
The portrait, for a portrait it must be. 
That hangs behind the curtain. Whence 

drew, 
None here can doubt : for they that come 

catch 
The faintest glimpse — to catch it and be gone, 
Gaze as he gazed, then shrink into themselves, 
Acting the self-same part. But why 't was 

drawn, 






Whether in penance, to atone for Guilt, 

Or to record the anguish Guilt inflicts, 

Or haply to familiarize his mind 

With what he could not fly from, none can say, 

For none could learn the burden of his soul." 

XXI. 

THE HARPER. 

It was a Harper, wandering with his harp, 
His only treasure ; a majestic man, 
By time and grief ennobled, not subdued ; 
Though from his height descending, day by day 
And, as his upward look at once betray'd. 
Blind as old Homer. At a fount he sate, 
Well-known to many a weary traveller ; 
His little guide, a boy not seven years old, 
But grave, considerate beyond his years, 
Sitting beside him. Each had ate his crust 
In silence, drinking of the virgin-spring; 
And now in silence, as their custom was. 
The sun's decline awaited. 

But the child 
Was worn with travel. Heavy sleep weigh' d 

down 
His eye-lids ; and the grandsire, when we came, 
Embolden' d by his love and by his fear, 
His fear lest night o'ertake them on the road, 
Humbly besought me to convey them both 
A little onward. Such small services 
Who can refuse ? — Not I ; and him who can, 
Blest though he be with every earthly gift, 




I cannot envy. He, if wealth be his, 
Knows not its uses. So from noon till night, 
Within a crazed and tatter'd vehicle, (62) 
That yet display'd, in old emblazonry, 
A shield as splendid as the Bardi wear ; (63) 
We lumber' d on together ; the old man 
Beguiling many a league of half its length, 
When question'd the adventures of his life, 
And all the dangers he had undergone ; 
His shipwrecks on inhospitable coasts, 
And his long warfare. 

They were bound, he said, 
To a great fair at Reggio ; and the boy, 
Believing all the world were to be there, 
And I among the rest, let loose his tongue. 
And promised me much pleasure. His short 

trance, 
Short as it was, had, like a charmed cup, 
Restored his spirit, and, as on we crawi'd. 
Slow as the snail (my muleteer dismounting. 
And now his nniles addressing, now his pipe, 
And now Luigi) he poured out his heart. 
Largely repaying me. At length the sun 
Departed, setting in a sea of gold ; 
And, as we gazed, he bade me rest assured 
That like the setting would the rising be. 

Their harp — it had a voice oracular. 
And in the desert, in the crowded street, 
Spoke when consulted. It the treble chord 
Twang' d shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they 
went, 






^ fjii 






ITALY. 

The grr.ndsire, step by step led by the child ; 
And not a rain-drop from a passing cloud 
Fell on their garments. Thus it spoke to-day ; 
Inspiring joy, and, in the young one's mind, 
Brightening a path already full of sunshine. 

XXII. 

THE FELUCA. 

Day glimmer' d ; and beyond the precipice 
(Which my mule follow' d as in love with fear, 
Or as iu scorn, /et more and more inclining 
To tempt the danger where it menaced most), 
A sea of vapour roll'd. Methought we went 
Along the utmost edge of this, our world ; 
But soon the surges fled and we descried 
Nor dimly, though the lark was silent yet, 
Thy gulf, La Spezzia. Ere the morning-gun, 
Ere the first day-streak, we ahghted there ; 
And not a breath, a murmur ! Every sail 
Slept in the offing. Yet along the shore 
Great was the stir ; as at the noontide hour. 
None unemploy'd. Where from its native rock 
A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea. 
The maidens knelt and sung as they were wont, 
Washing their garments. Where it met the tide, 
Sparkling and lost, an ancient pinnace lay 
Keel-upward, and the fagot blazed, the tar 
Fumed from the chaldron ; while, beyond the fort 
Whither I wander'd, step by step led on. 
The fishers dragg'd their net, the fish within 
At every heave fluttering and full of life. 



^/ 



^1 




182 



ITALY. 



At every heave striking their silver fins 
'Gainst the dark meshes. 

Soon a boatman's shout 
Re-echoed ; and red bonnets on the beach, 
Waving, recall'd me. We embark'd and left 
That noble haven, where, when Genoa reign'd, 
A hundred galleys shelter' d — in the day, 
When lofty spirits met, and, deck to deck, 
Doria, Pisani fought ; that narrow field 
Ample enough for glory. On we went, 
Ruffling with many an oar the crystalline 

sea, (64) 
On from the rising to the setting sun. 
In silence — underneath a mountain-ridge. 
Untamed, untamable, reflecting round 
The saddest purple ; nothing to be seen 
Of life or culture, save where, at the foot, 
Some village and its church, a scanty line, 
Athwart the wave gleam' d faintly. Fear of ill 
Narrow'd our course, fear of the hurricane, 
And that yet greater scourge, the crafty Moor, 
Who, like a tiger prowling for his prey. 
Springs and is gone, and on the adverse coast 
(Where Tripoli and Tunis and Algiers 
Forge fetters, and white turbans on the mole 
Gather, whene'er the Crescent comes display'd 
Over the Cross) his human merchandise 
To many a curious, many a cruel eye 
Exposes. Ah, how oft where now the sun 
Slept on the shore, have ruthless cimeters 
Flash'd through the lattice, and a swarthy crew 
Dragg'd forth, ere-long to number them for sale, 




rXAL^ . 

Ere-long to part them in their agony, 

Parent and child ! How oft where now we rode 

Over the billow, has a wretched son. 

Or yet more wretched sire, grown grey in chains, 

Labour'd, his hands upon the oar, his eyes 

Upon tlie land — the land, that gave him birth ; 

And, as he gazed, his homestall through his tears. 

Fondly imagined ; when a Christian ship 

Of war appearing in her bravery, 

A voice in anger cried, " Use all your strength!" 

But when, ah when, do they that can, forbear 
To crush the unresisting ? Strange, that men, 
Creatures so frail, so soon, alas ! to die. 
Should have the power, the will to make this 

world 
A dismal prison-house, and life itself. 
Life in its prime, a burden and a curse 
To him who never wrong' d them ! Who that 

breathes 
Would not, when first he heard it, turn away 
As from a tale monstrous, incredible ? 
Surely a sense of our mortality, 
A consciousness how soon we shall be gone, 
Or, if we linger — but a few short years — 
How sure to look upon our brother's grave, 
Should of itself incline to pity and love, 
And prompt us rather to assist, relieve. 
Than aggravate the evils each is heir to. 

At length thn day departed, and the moon 
Rose Hke anot:ier sun, illumining 






ITALT. 

Waters and woods and cloud-capt promoa- 

tories, 
Olades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower, 
Scenes of Elysium, such as Night alone 
Reveals below, nor often — scenes that fled 
As at the waving of a wizard's wand, 
And left behind them, as their parting gift, 
A thousand nameless odours. All was still ; 
And now the nightingale her song pour'd forth 
In such a torrent of heart -felt delight, 
So fast it flow'd, her tongue so voluble, 
As if she thought her hearers would be gone 
tjve half was told. 'T was where in the north 

west, 
Still unassail'd and unassailable, 
Thy pharos, Genoa, first display'd itself, 
Burning in stillness on its craggy seat ; 
That guiding star, so oft the only one, 
When those now glowing in the azure vault, 
Are dark and silent. 'T was where o'er the sea, 
For we were now within a cable's length, 
Delicious gardens hung ; green galleries, 
And marble terraces in many a flight. 
And fairy-arches flung from cliflfto cliff, 
Wildering, enchanting ; and, above them all, 
A Palace, such as somewhere in the East, 
Jn Zenastan or Araby the blest, 
Among its golden groves and fruits of gold, 
And fountains scattering rainbows in the sun, 
Rose, when Aladdin rubb'd the wondrous lamp; 
Such, if not fairer ; and, when we shot by, 
A scene of revelry, in long array 



'^f\ 




^. 



ITALY. 



185 



The windows blazing. But we now approach' d 
A City far-renown' d;* and wonder ceased. 

XXITI. 

GENOA. 

This house was Andrea Doria's. Here he 
lived ; 
And here at eve relaxing, when ashore, 
Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse 
With them that sought him, walking to and fro 
As on his deck. ' T is less in length and breadth 
Than many a cabin in a ship of war ; 
But 't is of marble, and at once inspires 
The reverence due to ancient dignity. 

He left it for a better ; and 't is now 
A house of trade, (65) the meanest merchandise 
Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is, 
'T is still the noblest dwelling — even in Genoa! 
And hadst thou, Andrea, lived there to the last, 
Thou hadst done well ; for there is that without, 
That in the wall , which monarchs could not give, 
Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud, 
It was thy Country's gift to her Deliverer. 

'T is in the heart of Genoa (he who comes, 
Must come on foot) and in a place of stir ; 
Men on their daily business, early and late, 

* Genoa. 



tHl'^ 



<^> 



186 



ITALY. 



%-' 



m 



Thronging thy very threshold. But when there, 
Thou wert among thy fellow-citizens, 
Thy children, for they hail'd thee as their sire ; 
And on a spot thou must have loved, for there, 
Calling them round, thou gavest them more 

than life, 
Giving what, lost, makes life not worth the 

keeping. 
There thou did'st do indeed an act divine ; 
Nor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in, 
Without a blessing on thee. 

Thou art now 
Again among them. Thy brave mariners, 
They who had fought so often by thy side, 
Staining the mountain-billows, bore thee back ; 
And thou art sleeping in thy funeral- chamber. 

Thine was a glorious course ; but couldst thou 
there. 
Clad in thy cere-cloth — in that silent vault, 
Where thou art gather' d to thy ancestors — 
Open thy secret heart and tell us all, 
Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess, 
A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours 
Were pass'd before these sacred walls were left,' 
Before the ocean-wave thy wealth reflected, (.66) 
And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up 
The ambitious man,* that in a perilous hour 
Fell from the plank. 



* Fipsco, 



^' 



^-£3 



ITALY. 



A FAREWELL.* 





And .low farewell to Italy — perhaps 
For ever ! Yet, methinks, I could not go, 
I could not leave it, were it mine to say, 
" Farewell for ever !" 

Many a courtesy. 
That sought no recompense, and met with none 
But in the swell of heart with which it came, 
Have I experienced ; not a cabin-door, 
Go where I would, but open'd vv'ith a smile ; 
From the first hour, when, in my long descent. 
Strange perfumes rose, as if to welcome me. 
From flowers that minister'd like unseen spirits; 
From the first hour, when vintage-songs broke 

forth, 
A grateful earnest, and the Southern lakes, 
Dazzlingly bright, unfolded at my feet; 
They that receive the cataracts, and ere-long 
Dismiss them, but how changed — onward to roll 
From age to age in silent majesty, 
Blessing the nations, and reflecting round 
The gladness they inspire. 

Gentle or rude. 
No scene of life but has contributed 
Much to remember — from the Polesine, 
Where, when the south-wind blows, and clouds 

on clouds 
Gather and fall, the peasant freights his bark, 
Mindful to migrate when the king of floodst 



♦ Written at Susa, May 1, 1822, 







M 



r 



\k 





K-^ 








ITALY. 

Visits his humble dwelling, and the kee*, 
Slowly uplifted over field and fence, 
Floats on a world of waters — from that low, 
That level region, where no Echo dwells, 
Or, if she comes, comes in her saddest plight. 
Hoarse, inarticulate — on to where the path 
Is lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe 
Is to inhale distemper, if not death ; 
Where the wild-boar retreats, when hunters 

chafe 
And, when the day-star flames, the buffalo-herd, 
Afflicted, plunge into the stagnant pool, 
Nothing discern'd amid the water-leaves, 
Save here and there the likeness of a head, 
Savage, uncouth ; where none in human shape 
Come, save the herdsman, levelling his length 
Of lance with many a cry, or, Tartar-like, 
Urging his steed along the distant hill 
As from a danger. There, but not to rest, 
I travell'd many a dreary league, nor turn'd 
(Ah then least willing, as who had not been ?) 
When in the South, against the azure sky, 
Three temples rose in soberest majesty, 
The wondrous work of some heroic race.* 

But now a long farewell ! Oft, while I live, 
If once again in England, once again 
In my own chimney-nook, as Night steals on, 
With half-shut eyes reclining, oft, methinks, 
While the wind blusters and the pelting rain 

* The Temples of Psestum. 





K ^ 



>0 



ITALY. 

Clatters without, shall I recall to mind 
The scenes, occurrences, I met with here. 
And wander in Elysium ; many a note 
01 vviidesl melody, magician-like, 
Awakening, such as the Calabrian horn, 
Along the mounrain-side, when all is still. 
Pours forth at toiding-time ; and many a cham, 
Solemn, sublime, such as at midnight flows 
From the full choir, when richest harmonies 
Break the deep silence of thy glens, La CaVci , 
To him who lingers there with listening ear. 
Now lost and now descending as from Heaven! 



8 






NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Note 1, Page 15. 
like him of old. 



The Abbot of Clairvaux. "To admire or 
despise St. Bernard as he ought," sa)'^s Gibbon, 
"the reader, Hke myself, should have before 
the windows of his library that incomparable 
landscape." 

Note 2, Page 17. 
Two dogs of grave demeanour welcomed me. 
Berri, so remarkable for his sagacity, was 
dead. His skin is stufied, and is preserved in 
the Museum of Berne. 

Note 3, Page 22. 

Bread to the hungry. 
They distribute, in the course of the year, 
from thirty to thirty-five thousand rations of food; 
receiving travellers of every description.— Le 
Peke Biselx, Prieur. 

Note 4, Page 23. 
Dessaix, who lurn'd the scale. 
" Of all the generals I ever had under me, 
Dessaix possessed the greatest talents. He 
loved glory for itself." 

(191) 







Note 5, Page 28. 
-A wondrous nionumen„ 



Almost every mountain of any rank or con- 
dition has such a bridge. The most celebrated 
in this country is on the Swiss side of St. 
Gothard. 

Note 6, Page 35. 
quaffing gramolata. 



A sherbet half frozen. 

Note 7, Page 37. 
Like him wiio, in liie days of Minstrelsy. 
Petrarch, Epist. Rer. Sen. 1. v, ep. 3. 

Note 8, Page 37. 
Before the great Mastino. 

Mastino de la Scala, the Lord of Verona. 
Coriusia, the ambassador and historian, saw 
him so surrounded. — L. 6. 

This house had been always open to the un- 
fortunate. In the days of Can Grande, all were 
welcome ; Poets, Philosophers, Artists, War- 
riors. Each had his apartment, each a separate 
table ; and at the hour of dinner, musicians and 
jesters went from room to room. Dante, as 
we learn from himself, found an asylum there. 

Note 9, Page 40. 
In this neglected mirror. 
As this is the only instance, with which I am 





^1 



a 



Ck^ 



ITALY. T')3 

acquainted, of a Ghost in Italy since Brutus sat 
in his tent, I give it as 1 received it ; though in 
the catastrophe I have been anticipated by a 
distinguished writer of the present day. 

It was first mentioned to me by a friend, as 
we were cro*ssing the Apennines together. 

Note 10, Page 43. 
SShe was wall'd up within the Castle- wall. 

Murato was a technical word for this punish- 
ment in Italy. 

Note 11, Page 43. 

Issuing forth. 

An old huntsman of the family met her in the 
haze of the morning, and never went out again. 
She is still known by the name of Madonna 
Bianca. 

Note 12, Page 44. 

the tower of Ezzelin — 

Now an Observatory. On the wall there is 
a long inscription: " Piis carcerem adspergite 
iacrymis," etc. 

Ezzelino is seen by Dante in the river of 
blood. — Inferno, xii. 

Note 13, Page 45. 
The lagging niules- 



The passage-boats are drawn up and down 
r the Brent. 

13 



M 



194 



ITALY. 



Note ]4, Page 45. 
That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino. 

A pleasant instance of his wit and agility was 
exhibited some years ago on the stage at Venice. 

"The stutterer was in an agony; the word 
was inexorable. It was to no nurpose that 
Harlequin suggested another and another. At 
length, in a iit of despair, he pitched his head 
full ni the dying man's stomach, and the word 
bolted out of his mouth to the most distant part 
of the house." — See Moore's View of Society 
in Italy. 

Note 15, Page 47. 

Ere yet the Cafila came. 

A caravan. 

Note 16, Page 50. 
Playing at Mora. 
A national game of great antiquity, and most 
probably the " micare digitis" of the Romans. 

Note 17, Page 50. 

twelve Procurators. 

The procuratorship of St. Mark was the 
second dignity in the Republic. 

Note 18, Page 52. 
The brass is gone, the porphyry remains 

They were placed in the floor as memorials. 
The brass was engraven with the words ^ ad- 



tt^ 



ITALY. 



195 



h 



h*fc 



dressed by the Pope to the Emperor, "Super 
aspidem," etc. 

Note 19, Page 53. 
Ofihe proud Pontiff- 
Alexander III. He fled in disguise to Venice, 
and is said to have passed the first night on the 
steps of San Salvatore. The entrance is from 
the Merceria, near the foot of the Riaho ; and 
it is thus recorded, under his escutcheon, in a 
small tablet at the door : Alexandre III. Pont. 
Max. pernoctanti. 

Note 20, Page 54. 
-some from merry Englaiid. 



" Recenti victoria exultantes," says Petrarch, 
alluding, no doubt, to the favourable issue of the 
war in France. This festival began on the 4th 
of August, 1364. 

Note 21, Page 54. 
And lo, the madness of the Carnival. 
Among those the most followed, there was 
always a mask in a magnificent habit, relating 
marvellous adventures, and calling himself 
Messer Marco Millioni. Millioni was the name 
given by his fellow-citizens in his life-time to 
the great traveller, Marco Polo. " I have seen 
him so described," says Ramusio, " in the re- 
cords of the Republic ; and his house has, 
from that time to this, been called La Corte del 
MilUoni," the house of the rich man, the mil- 



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ITALY. 

lionnaire. It is on the canal of S. Giovanni 
Chrisostomo; and, as long as he lived, was 
much resorted to by the curious and the learned. 

Note 22, Page 56. 
And bore away to the canal Ortano. 

A deep channel beliind the island of S. Giorgo 
Maggiore. 

Note 23, Page 58. 
All eye, all ear, nowhsre and everywhere. 

A Frenchman of high rank, who had been 
robbed at Venice, and hid complained in con- 
versation of the negligence of the Police, was 
on his way back to the Terra Firma, when his 
gondola stopped suddenly in the midst of the 
waves. He inquired the reason ; and his gon- 
doliers pointed to a boat with a red flag, that had 
just made them a signal. It arrived ; and he 
was called on board. " You are the Prince de 
Craon ? Were you not robbed on Friday even- 
ing ? — I was. — Of what ? — Of live hundred du- 
cats. — And where were they ? — In a green 
purse. — Do you suspect any body ? — I do, a 
servant. — Would you know him egain ? — Cer- 
tainly." The Interrogator with his foot turned 
aside an old cloak that lay there ; and the Prince 
beheld his purse in the hand of a dead man. 
" Take it ; and remember that none set their feet 
again in a country where they have presumed 
to doubt the wisdom of the government." 



I 






ITALY. 

Note 24, Page 61. 

and he sung, 

As in the liir.c'when Yei ice was heiself. 

Goldoni, describing his excursion with the 
Passalacqua, has left us a Uvely picture of this 
class of men. 

We w-ere no sooner in the middle of that 
great lagoon which encircles the city than our 
discreet gondolier drew the curtain behind us, 
and let us float at the will of the waves. — At 
length night came on, and we could not tell 
where we were. " What is the hour?" said I 
to the gondolier. "I cannot guess, sir; but if 
I am not mistaken, it is the lover's hour." — 
" Let Us go home," I replied; and he turned 
the prow homeward, singing as he rowed, the 
twenty-sixth strophe of the sixteenth canto of 
the Jerusalem Delivered. 



Note 25, Page 62. 
The young Bianca found her father's door. 
Bianca Capello. It had been shut by a ba- 
ker's boy, as he passed by, at day-break ; and 
in her despair she tied with her lover to Florence, 
where he fell by assassination. Her beauty, 
and her love-adventure as here related, her mar- 
riage afterwards with the Grand Duke, and that 
fatal banquet at which they were both poisoned 
by the Cardinal, his brother, have rendered her 
history a romance, 'i'he Capello Palace is on 
the Canale di Canonico ; and the postern-door, 
la 'porta di sirada, is still on its hinges. It 




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198 



ITALY. 



opens into one of those narrow alleys so numer- 
ous at Venice. 

Note 26, Page 66. 

Laid at his feet. 

They were to be seen in the treasury of St. 
Mark very lately. 

'Note 27, Page 70. 
that maid, at once the fairest, noblest. 



She was a Conlarini ; a name coeval with the 
Republic, and illustrated by eight Doges. On 
the occasion of their marriage, the Bucentaur 
came out in its splendour ; and a bridge of 
boats was thrown across the Canal Grande for 
the Bridegroom and his retinue of three hundred 
horse. Sanuto dwells with pleasure on the cost- 
liness of the dresses and the magnificence of> 
the processions by land and water. The tourna- 
ments in the Place of St. Mark lasted three 
days, and were attended by thirty thousand peo- 
ple. 

Note 28, Page 71. 
I have transgress'd, offended, wilfully. 
It was a high crime to sohcit the intercession 
of any foreign Prince. 

Note 29, Page 73. 

the invisible Three. 

The State-Inquisitors. For an account of 
their authority, see page 52. 



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ITALY. 

Note 30, Page 77. 
Neglect to visit Arqua. 
This village, says Boccaccio, hitherto almost 
unknown even at Padua, is soon to become 
famous through the World ; and the sailor on 
the Adriatic will prostrate himself when he 
discovers the Euganean hills. " Among tlfem," 
will he say, " sleeps the Poet who is our glory. 
Ah, unhappy Florence ! You neglected him— 
You deserved him not." 

Note 31, Page 78. 
Half-way up 
He built his house. 

" I have built among the Euganean hills, a 
small house decent and proper ; in which I hope 
to pass the rest of my days, thinking always of 
my dead or absent friends." 

When the Venetians overran the country, 
Petrarch prepared for flight. " Write your 
name over your door," said one of his friends, 
'* and you will be safe." " I am not so sure of 
that," replied Petrarch, and fled with his books 
to Padua. 

His books he left to the Republic of Venice ; 
but they exist no longer. His legacy to Francis 
Carrara, a Madonna painted by Giotto, is still 
preserved in the cathedral of Padua. 

Note 32, Page 87. 
In this chapel wrought. 

A chapel of the Holy Virgin in the church o' 



vf^; 




200 



ITALY. 



the Carmelites. It is adorned with his paintmgs, 
and all the great artists of Florence studied 
there : Lionardo da Vinci, Fra Bartolomeo, 
Andrea del Sarto, Michael Angelo, Raphael, 
etc. 

He had no stone, no inscription, says one of 
his biographers, for he was thought little of in 
his lifl-time. 

Note 33, Page 87. 
-conderan'd his mortal part 



To fire.- 



In 1302, he was sentenced, if taken, to be 
burned. 

Note 34, Page 88. 
Nor then forget ihat Chamber of the Dead. 
The Chapel de' Depositi ; in which are the 
tombs of the Medici, by Michael Angelo. 

Note 35, Page 88. 
That is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well. 
He died early ; living only to become the fa- 
ther of Catharine de Medicis. Had an evil 
spirit assumed the human shape to propagate 
mischief, he could not have done better. 

The statue is larger than the life, but not so 
large as to shock belief. It is the most real and 
unreal thing that ever came from the chisel. 

Note 36, Page 89. 
It must be known— the writing on the wall. 
Exoriarealiquisnostris ex ossibus ultor. 
Perhaps there is nothing in language more af- 



f. 



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ITALY. 




fecting than his last testament. It is addressed 
"To God, the Deliverer,'' and was found steep- 
ed in his blood. 

Note 37, Page 90. 

That Cosmo. 

The first Grand Duke. 

Note 38, Page 90. 
ihe diatPi solateMoiher. 



Of the children that survived her, one fell by 
a brother, one by a husband, and a third mur- 
dered his wife. 

But that family was soon to become extinct. 
It is some consolation to reflect that their coun- 
try did not go unrevenged for the calamities 
which they had brought upon her. How many 
of them died by the hands of each other ! — 

Note 39, Page 93. 
Came out into the meadows. 
Once, on a bright November morning, I set 
out and traced them, as I conceived, step by 
step ; beginning and ending in the Church of 
Santa Maria Novella. It was a walk delightful 
in itself, and in its associations. 

Note 40, Page 94. 
The morning-banquet by the louniain-side 
Three hours after sun-rise. 



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ITALY 



202 



Note 41, Page 96. 
There, unseen. 
Milton went to Italy in 1638, "There it 
was," says he, " that I found and visited the 
famous Galileo, grown old, a prisoner to the 
Inquisition." "Old and blind," he might have 
said. Galileo, by his own account, became blind 
in December, 1637. Milton, as we learn from 
the date of Sir Henry Wotton's letter to him, 
had not left England on #ie 18th of April fol- 
lowing. — See TiRABOscHi, and Wotton's Re- 
mains. 

Note 42, Page 97. 

So near the yellow Tiber's— 

They rise within thirteen miles of each other. 

Note 43, Page 97. 
Handa, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring. 
It was in this manner that the first Sforza 
went down, when he perished in the Pesc&.ra. 

Note 44, Page 100. 
At the bridge-foot. 

Giovanni Buondelmonle was on the point of 
marrying an Amidei, when a widow of the Do- 
nati family made him break his engagement in 
the manner here described. 

The Amidei washed away the affront with 
his blood, attacking him, says Villani, at the 
foot of the Ponle Vecchio ; and hence the wars 
of the Guelphs and the Ghibellines. 



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rrALY. 

O Buondelmonte, quanto mal fuggisti 

Le aozze sue, per gli altrui conforii I Dante. 

Note 45, Pa&e 101. 
It had been well, hadst thau slept on, Imelda. 
The story isBolognese, and is told by Cherii- 
bino Ghiradacci in his history of Bologna. Her 
lover was of the Guelphic party, her brothers of 
the Ghibelline ; and no sooner was this act of 
violence made known, than an enmity, hitherto 
but half- suppressed, broke out into open war. 
The Great Place was a scene of battle and 
bloodshed for forty successive days ; nor was a 
reconciliation accomplished till six years after- 
wards, when the families and their adherents 
met there once again, and exchanged the kisa 
of peace before the Cardinal Legate ; as the ri- 
val families of Florence had already done in 
the place of S. Maria Novella. Every house on 
the occasion was hung with tapestry and gar- 
lands of flowers. 

Note 46, Pa&e 101. 

from the wound 

Sucking the poison. 

The Saracens had introduced among them the 
practice of poisoning their daggers. 

Note 47, Page 101. 
-Yet when Slavery came, 



Worse' follow'd. 
It is remarkable that the noblest works of hu- 





ITALY". 

man genius have been produced in times of tu- 
mult ; when every man was his own master, and 
all things were open to all. Homer, Dante, 
and Milton appeared in such times ; and we 
may add Virgil. 

Note 48, Page 102. 
Cruel Tophana. 

A Sicilian, the inventress of many poisons ; 
the most celebrated of which, from its transpa- 
rency, was called Acquetta, or Acqua Tophana. 



Note 49, Page 104. 
Of that old den far up among the hills. 

Caffaggiolo, the favourite retreat of Cosmo, 
"the father of his country." Eleonora di To- 
ledo was stabbed there on the 11th of July, 
1576, by her husband, Pietro de' Medici ; and 
on the 16th of the same month, Isabella de' 
Medici was strangled by hers, Paolo Giordano 
Orsini, in his villa of Cerroto. They were at 
Florence, when they were sent for, each in her 
turn, Isabella under the pretext of a hunting- 
party ; and each in her turn went to die. 

Isabella was one of the most beautiful and 
accomplished women of the age. In the Latin, 
French, and Spanish languages, she spoke not 
only with fluency, but elegance ; and in her own 
she excelled as an Improvisatrice, accompany- 
ing herself on the lute. On her arrival at dusk, 
Paolo presented her with two beautiful grey- 
hounds, that she might make a trial of their 




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ITALY. 



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speed in the morning ; and at supper was gay 
beyond measure. When lie retired, he sent 
for her into his apartment ; and, pressing her 
tenderly to his bosom, slipped a cord round her 
neck. 

Eleonora appears to have had a presentiment 
of her fate. She went when required ; but, 
before she set out, took leave of her son, then 
a child ; weeping long and bitterly over him. 

Note 50, Page 114. 

the Appian. 

The street of the tombs in Pompeii may serve 
to give us some idea of the Via Appia, that Re- 
ginu Viarum, in its splendour. It is perhaps 
the most striking vestige of Antiquity that re- 
mains to us. 

Note 51, Page 114. 

t orace himself 

And Augustus in his litter, coming at a still 
slower rate. He was borne along by slaves ; 
and the gentle motion allowed him to read, 
write, and employ himself as in his cabinet. — 
Though Tivoli is only sixteen miles from the. 
City he was always two nights on the road. — 
Suetonius. 

Note 52, Page 115. 
-the centre of their Universe". 



From the golden pillar in the Forum the ways 
ran to the gates, and from the gates to the ex- 
tremities of the Empire. 



'\. 



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ITALY. 

Note 53, Page 115. 
To the twelve tables. 
The laws of the twelve tables were inscribed 
on pillars of brass, and placed in the most con- 
spicuous part of the Forum. — Dion. Hal. 

Note 54, Page 117. 

On those so young, well-pleased with all they see. 

In the triumph of ^milius, nothing affected 
the Roman people like the children of Perseus. 
Many wept ; nor could any thing else attract 
notice, till they were gone by. — Plutarch. 

Note 55, Pa&e 131. 

And architectural pomp, such as none else; 
And dazzling light, and darkness visible. 

Whoever has entered the Church of St. Pe- 
ter's or the Pauline Chapel, during the Exposi- 
tion of the Holy Sacrament there, will not soon 
forget the blaze of the altar, or the dark circle 
of worshippers kneeling in silence before it. 

Note 56, Page 134. 
'T was in her utmost need ; nor, while she livee. 

Her back was at that time turned to the peo- 
ple ; but in his countenance might be read all 
that was passing. The Cardinal, who officiated, 
was a venerable old man, evidently unused to 
the ceremony and much affected by it. 



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ITALY. 



207 



1 



TO 



Note 57, Page 135. 
The black pall, the requiem. 

Among other ceremonies, a pall was thrown 
over her, and a requiem sung. 

Note 58, Page 169. 
The fishing-town, Amalfi. 
"Amalfi fell, after three hundred years of 
prosperity ; but the poverty of one thousand 
fishermen is yet dignified by the remains of an 
arsenal, a cathedral, and the palaces of royal 
merchants." — Gibbon. 

Note 59, Page 171. 
relics of ancient Greece. 



Among other things the Pandects of Justi- 
nian were found there in 1137. By the Pisans 
they were taken from Amalfi, by the Floren- 
tines from Pisa ; and they are now preserved 
with religious care in the Laurentian Library. 

Note 60, Page 172. 
Serve for their monument. 
By degrees, says Giannone, they made them- 
selves famous through the world. The Tarini 
Amalfitani were a coin familiar to all nations ; 
and their maritime code regulated everywhere 
the commerce of the sea. Many churches in 
the East were by them built and endowed : by 
them was first founded in Palestine the most 
renowed military order of St. John of Jerusa- 



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ITALY 



lem ; and who does not know that the Mariner's 
Compass was invented by a citizen of Amalfi ? 

Note 61, Page 175. 
and Posidonia rose. 




Originally a Greek City under that name, and 
afterwards a Roman City, under the name of 
Paesium. See Mitford's Hist, of Greece, chap. 
X, sec. 2. It was surprised and destroyed by 
the Saracens at the beginning of the tenth cen- 
tury. 

Note 62, Page 180. 
"Within a crazed and talter'd vehicle. 
Then degraded and belonging to a Vetturino. 

Note 63, Page ISO. 
A shield as splendid as the Bardi wear. 
A Florentine family of great antiquity. In 
the sixty-third novel of Franco Sacchetty we 
read that a stranger, suddenly entering Giotto's 
study, threw down a shield and departed, say- 
ing, ■' Paint me my arms in thatthield;" and 
tlaat Giotto, looking after him, exclaimed — 
" Who is he ? What is he ? He says. Paint me 
my arms, as if he was one of the Bardi ! What 
arms does he bear?" 

Note 64, Page 182. 
Rufiling wiih many an oar the cr>'stalline sea. 
The Feluca is a large boat for rowing and 
Bailing, much used in the Mediterranean. 



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ITALY. 

Note 65, Page 185. 

A house of trade. 
When I saw it in 1822, a basket-maker lived 
on the ground-floor, and over him a seller of 
chocolate. 

Note ^^, Page 186. 
Before the ocean- wave thy wealth reflected. 
Alluding to the Palace which he built after- 
wards and in which he twice entertained the 
Emperor Charles the Fifth. It is the ir.ost mag- 
nificent edifice on the bay of Genoa, 



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HUMAN LIFE. 



\1 



ARGUMENT. 

Introduction— Ringing of bells in a neiglibouring Village 
on the birth of an heir— General Reflections on Human 
Life— The Subject Proposed— Childhood— Youth— 
Maahood— Love— Marriage— Domestic Happiness and 
Afflictinn— War— Peace — Civil Dissension — Retire- 
ment from active Life — Old Age and its Enjoyments 
—Conclusion. 



The lark has sung his carol in the sky : 
The bees have humm'd theirnoon-tide lullaby. 
Still in the vale the viiiage-bells ring round, 
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound: 
For now the caudle-cup is circling there, 
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their 

prayer, 
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire, 
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. 

A few short years — and then these sounds 
shall hail 
The day again, and gladness fill the vale; 
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, 
Eager to run the race his fathers ran. 
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; 
The ale now brew'd, in floods of amber shine : 

211 



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HUMAN LIFE. 

And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, 
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, 
'"Twas on these knees he sate so oft and 
smiled." 
And soon again shall music swell the breeze ; 
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the 

trees 
Vestures of nuptial white ; and hymns be sung, 
And violets scatter d round ; and old and young, 
In every cottage-porch with garlands green. 
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene ; 
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side 
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. 

And once, alas, nor in a distant hour. 
Another voice shall come from yonder tower; 
When in dim chambers long black weeds are 

seen. 
And weepings heard where only joy has been ; 
When by his children borne, and from his door 
Slowly departing to return no more. 
He rests in holy earth with them that went be- 
fore. 
And such is Human Life ; so ghding on, 
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone ! 
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, 
As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change, 
As any that the wandering tribes require, 
Stretch' d in the desert round their evening fire ; 
As any sung of old in hall or bower 
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour! 
Born in a trance, we wake, observe, inquire ; 



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HUMAN LIFE. 



213 



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And the green earth, the azure sky admire. 

Of Elfin-size — for ever as we run, 

We cast a longer shadow in the sun ! 

And now a charm, and now a grace is won ! 

We grow in wisdom, and in stature too ! 

And, as new scenes, new objects rise to view, 

Think nothing done while aught remains to do. 

Yet, ail forget, how ott the eye-lids close. 
And from the slack hand drops the gather' d rose ! 
How oft, as dead, on the warm turf we lie. 
While many an emmet comes with curious eye ; 
And on her nest the watchful wren sits by ! 
Nor do we speak or move, or hear or see ; 
So like what once we were, and once again 

shall be. 
^ And say, how soon, where, blithe as innocent. 
The boy at sun-rise whistled as he went, 
An aged pilgrim on his staff shall Ipan, 
Tracing m vain the footsteps o'er the green ; 
The man himself how alter'd, not the scene ! 
Now journeying hyme with nothing but the 

name ! 
Wayworn and spent, another and the same ! 
No eye observes the growth or the decay : 
To-day we look as we did yesterday ; 
And we shall look to-morrow as to-day : 
Yet while the loveliest smiles, her locks grow 

grey ! 
And in her glass could she but see the face 
She '11 see so soon amidst another race, 
How would she shrink '.—Returning from afar, 
After some years of travel, some of war, 











HUMAN LIFE. 

Within his gate Ulysses stood unknown 
Before a wife, a father, and a son ! 

And such is Human Life, the general theme. 
Ah, what at best, what but a longer dream ? 
Though with such wild romantic wanderings 

fraught, 
Such forms in Fancy's richest colouring 

wrought. 
That, like the visions of a love-sick brain, 
Who would not sleep and dream them o'er 
again ? 
Our pathway leads but to a precipice ; 
And all must follow, fearful as it is ! 
From the first step 't is known ; but — No delay ! 
On, 'tis decreed. We tremble and obey. 
A thousand ills beset us as we go. 
— " Still, could I shun the fatal gulf" — Ah, no, 
'.T is all in vain — the inexorable law I 
Nearer and nearer to the brink we draw. 
Verdure springs up ; and fruits and flowers in- 
vite. 
And groves and fountains — all things that de- 
light 
" Oh, I would stop, and linger if I might !" — 
We fly ; no resting for the foot we find ; 
And dark before, all desolate behind ! 
At length the brink appears — but one step more! 
We faint — On, on ! — we falter — and 't is o'er ! 
Yet here high passions, high desires unfold, 
Prompting to noblest deeds ; here links of gold 
Bind soul to soul ; and thoughts divine inspire 
A thirst unquenchable, a holy fire 



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HUM^J^ LIFE. 

That will not, cannot but with life expire ! 
Now, seraph- wingr'd, among the stars 

soar; 
Now, distant ages, like a day, •explore, 
And judge the act, the actor now no more; 
Or, in a thankless hour cGndemn'd to live. 
From others claim what these refuse to give. 
And dart, like Miltoia, an unemng eye 
Throfjgh the dim curtains of Futurity. 

VVeuhh, Pleasure, Ea&xj, all thought of self 

resign' d. 
What will not Man encounter for Mankind ? 
Behold him now unbar the prison-door. 
And, lilting Guilt, Contagion from the floor. 
To Feacc and Heahh, and Light and Life 

restore ; 
Now m Thermopylag remain to share 
Death-»-nor look back, nor turn a footstep there. 
Leaving his story to the birds of air ; 
And now like Fylades (in Heaven they write 
Names such as his in characters of light) 
Long with his friend in generous enmity, 
Pleading, insisting in his place to die! 
Do what he will, he cannot realize 
Half he conceives — the glorious vision flies. 
Go where he may, he ca tnot hope to find 
The truth, the beauty pictured in his mind. 
But if by chance an object strike the sense, 
The faintest shadow of that Excellence, 
Passions, that slept, are stirring in his frame ; 
Thoughts undefined, feelings without a name . 
And some, not here call'd forth, may slumber on 



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216 



HUMAN LIFE. 







Till this vain pageant of a world is gone ; 
Lying too deep for things that perish here, 
VVaiting for life — but in a nobler sphere ! 

Look where he comes ! Rejoicing in his birth, 
Awhile he moves as in a heaven on earth ! 
Sun, moon, and stars — the land, the sea, the sky 
To him shine out as 't were a galaxy ! 
But soon 't is past — the light has died away ! 
With him it came (it was not of the day) 
And he himself diffused it, like the stone 
That sheds awhile a lustre all its own, 
Making night beautiful. 'Tis past, 'tis gone, 
And in his darkness as he journeys on 
Nothing revives him but the blessed ray 
That now breaks in, nor ever knows decay. 

Sent from a better world to light him on his way. 
How great the Mystery ! Let others sing 

The circling Year, the promise of the Spring, 

The Summer's glory, and the rich repose 

Of Autumn, and the Winter's silvery snows, 

Man through the changing scene let me pursue, 

Himself how wondrous in his changes too ! 

Not Man the sullen savage in his den ; 

But Man call'd forth in fellowship with men ; 

School' d and train'd up to Wisdom from his 
birth ; 

God's noblest work — His image upon earth ! 
The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and 
fear'd ; 

The child is born, by many a pang endear' d. 

And now the mother's ear has caught his cry ; 

Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye ! 





HUMAN LIFE. 



217 



He comes — she clasps hire. To her bosom 

press'd, 
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest. 
Her by her smile how soon the Stranger 
knows ; 
How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, 
What answering looks of sympathy and joy ! 
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word 
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard. 
And ever, ever to her lap he flies, 
When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. 
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung, 
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue) 
As with soft accents round her neck he clings 
And cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings, 
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, 
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss 

impart ; 
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, 
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! 

But soon a nobler task dem'ands her care. 
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, 
Telling of Him who sees in secret there ! — 
And now the volume on her knee has caught 
His wandering eye — now many a written 

thought 
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet 
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to re- 
peat. 
Released, he chases the bright butterfly ; 
Oh he would follow — follow through the sky ! 



^ 





HUMAN LIFE. 

Climbs the gaunt mastiif slumbering in hia 

chain, 
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane ; 
Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side, 
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, 
A dangerous voyage ; or, if now he can, 
If how he wears the habit of a man, 
Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure, 
And, like a miser digging for his treasure. 
His tiny spade in his own garden plies. 
And in green letters sees his name arise ! 
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight, 
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight ! 

Ah who, when fading of itself away. 
Would cloud the sunshine of his little day ! 
Now is the May of Life. Careering I'ound, 
Joy wings his feet, Joy lifts him from the 

ground ! 
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say, 
When the rich casket shone in bright array, 
" These are my Jewels !" Well of such as he. 
When Jesus spake, well might his language be, 
" Suffer these little ones to come to me !" 

Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres 
The brow engraven with the Thoughts of 

Years ; 
Close by her side his silent homage given 
As to some pure Intelligence from Heaven ; 
His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame, 
His conscious checks, conscious of praise or 

blame. 
At once lit up as with a holy flame ! 



m 



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y 



HUMAN LIFE. 

He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire ; 
And soon with tears relinquish' d to the Sire, 
Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led, 
Hold secret converse with the Mighty Dead ; 
Trembles and thrills and weeps as they inspire, 
Burns as they burn, and with congenial fire ! 
Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate, 
Crown' d but to die — who in her chamber sate 
Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown, 
And every ear and every heart was won. 
And all in green array were chasing down the 
sun ! 
Then is the age of Admiration — Then 
Gods walk the earth, or beings more than men, 
Who breathe the soul of Inspiration round, 
Whose very shadows consecrate the ground! 
Ah, then comes thronging many a wild desire, 
And high imagining and thought of fire ! 
Then from within a voice exclaims " Aspire !" 
Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass. 
As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass; 
They, that on Youth a grace, a lustre shed. 
Of every age — the living and the dead ! 
Thou, all-accomplish' d Surrey, thou art known ; 
The flower of Knighthood, nipt as soon as 
blown ! 
[elting all hearts but Geraldine's alone ! 
^nd, wi(h his beaver up, discovering there 
»ne vvh.T luv'd less to conquer than to spare, 
^o the Black Warrior, he, who, battle-spent, 
5are-heuded served the Captive in his tent ! 
^oung B in the groves of Academe, 










r 



^ 






'v^-; 

V 1 







Or where Ilyssus winds his whispering stream; 
Or where the wild bees swarm with ceaseless 

hum, 
Dreaming old dreams — a joy for years to come; 
Or on the Rock within the sacred Fane ; — 
Scenes such as Milton sought, but sought in 

vain : 
And Milton's self (at that thrice-honoured name 
Well may we glow — as men, we share his 

fame) — 
And Milton's self, apart with beaming eye, 
Planning he knows nor what — that shall not die! 

Oh in thy truth secure, thy virtue bold, 
Beware the poison in the cup of gold. 
The asp among the flov/ers. Thy heart beats 

high, 
As bright and bright-er breaks the distant sky ! 
But every step is on enchanted ground ; 
Danger thou lovest, and Danger haunts thee 

round. 
Who spurs his horse against the mountain- 
side ; 
Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tide ? 
Draws and cries ho ; and, where the sun-beams 

fall. 
At his own shadow thrusts along the wall ? 
Who dances without music ; and anon 
Sings like the lark — then sighs as woe-begone, 
And folds his arms, and, where the willows 

wave, 
GHdes in the moon-shine by a maiden's grave ? 
Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow ; 









M 



^ 



:^ 



V 




Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now 
A ship, a whale, change not so fast as thou. 
He hears me not — Those sighs were from the 
heart ; 
Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part. 
He who at masques, nor feigning nor sincere, 
With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear, 
Lie at her feet, and on her slipper swear 
That none were half so iaultless, half so fair, 
Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer, 
A banish'd maji, flying when none are near; 
And writes on every tree, and lingers long 
Where most the nightingale repeats her song ; 
Where most the nymph, that haunts the silent 

grove. 
Delights to syllable the names we love. 

Two on his steps attend, in motly clad ; 
One woeful-wan, one merrier yet as mad ; 
Called Hope and Fear. Hope shakes his cap and 

bells, 
And flowers spring up among the woodland 

dells. ^ 

To Hope he listens, wandering without measure 
Through sun and shade, lost in a trance of plea- 
sure ; 
And, if to Fear but for a weary mile, 
Hope follows fast and wins him with a smile. 
At length he goes — a Pilgrim, to the Shrine 
And for a relic would a world resign ! 
A glove, a shoe-tie, or a flower let fall — 
What though the least. Love consecrates them 
all! 



ik^l 



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M'i 



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lo 



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HUMAN LIFE. 



And now he breathes in many a plaintive verse* 
Now wins the dull ear of the wily nurse 
At early matins ('t was at matin-time 
That first he saw and sicken' d in his prime), 
And soon the Sibyl, in her thirst for gold, 
Plays with young hearts that will not be con- 
troU'd. 
" Absence from Thee — as self from self it 
seems !" 
Scaled is the garden- wall ! and lo, her beams 
Silvering the east, the moon comes up, revealing 
His well-known form along the terrace stealing. 
— Oh, ere in sight he came, 'twas his to thrill 
A heart that loved him though in secret still. 
" Am I awake ? or is it — can it be 
An idle dream ? Nightly it visits me ! 
^That strain," she cries, " as from the water 

rose 
Now near and nearer through the shade it 

tlows ! — 
Now sinks departing — sweetest in its close !" 
No casement gleams ; no Juliet, like the day, 
Comes forth and speaks and bids her lover stay. 
Still, like aerial music heard from far. 
Nightly it rises with the evening-star. 

— ''She loves another! Love was in that sigh!" 
On the cold ground he throws himself to die. 
Fond Youth, beware. Thy heart is most de- 
ceiving. 
Who wish are fearful ; who suspect, believing. 
— And soon her looks the rapturous truth avow 
Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now I 






4^« 




i 




/^ 



She flies not, frowns not, though he pleads his 

cause ; 
Nor yet— nor yet her hand from his withdraws ; 
But by some secret Power surprised, subdued 
(Ah how resist ? Nor would she if she could), 
Falls on his neck as half unconscious where, 
Glad to conceal her tears, her blushes there. 

Then come those full confidings of the past ; 
All sunshine now where all was overcast. 
Then do they wander till the day is gone, 
Lost in each other ; and when Night steals on, 
Covering them round, how sreet her accents 

are I 
Oh when she turns and speaks, her voice is far, 
Far above singing !— But soon nothing stirs 
To break the silence— Joy like his, like hers, 
Deals not in words : and now the shadows close, 
Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows 
Less and less earthly 1 As departs the day 
All that was mortal seems to melt away. 
Till, like a gift resumed as soon as given, 
She fades at last into a Spirit from Heaven ! 
Then are they blest indeed ; and swift the 
hours 
Till her young Sisters wreathe her hair in flowers 
Kindhng her beauty— while, unseen, the least 
Twitches her robe, then runs behind the rest, 
Known by her laugh that will not be suppress'd 
Then before All they stand— the holy vow 
And ring of gold, no fond illusions now. 
Bind her as his. Across the threshold led, 
And every tear kiss'd oflT as soon as shed 






His house she enters — there to be a light, 
Shining within, when all without is night; 
A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding, 
Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing, 
Winning hinr back, when mingling in the 

throng, 
Back from a world we love, alas, too long, 
To fire-side happiness, to hours of ease. 
Blest with that charm, the certainty to please. 
How oft her eyes read his ; her gentle mind 
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined; 
Still subject — ever on the watch to borrow 
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow 
The soul of music slumbers in the shell, 
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell; 
And feeling hearts — touch them buc rightly — 

pour 
A thousand melodies unheard before ! 

Nor many moons o'er hill and valley rise 
Ere to the gate with nymph-like step she flies, 
And their first-born holds forth, their darhng 

boy, 
With smiles how sweet, how full of love and 

joy 
To meet him coming; theirs through every year 
Pure transports, such as each to each endear ! 
And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill 
Their halls with gladness. She, when all are 

still, 
Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie, 
In sleep how beautiful ! He, when the sky 
Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony. 



f 



7x 



HUMAN 





When, gathering round his bed, they climb to 

share 
His kisses, and with gentle violence there 
Break in upon a dream not half so fair, 
Up to the hill-top leads their little feet ; 
Or by the forest-lodge, perchance to meet 
The stag-herd on its march, perchance to hear 
The otter rustling in the sedgy mere ; 
Or to the echo near the Abbot's tree, 
That gave liim back his words of pleasantry — 
When the House stood, no merrier man than 

he! 
And, as they wander with a keen delight, 
If but a leveret catch their quicker sight 
Down a green alley, or a squirrel then 
Climb the gnarl'd oak, and look and climb 

again, 
If but a moth flit by, an acorn fall. 
He turns their thoughts to Him who made them 

all; 
These with unequal footsteps following fast. 
These clinging by his cloak, unwilling to be last. 

The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow. 
And the swart sea-man, sailing far below, 
Not undeUghted watch the morning ray 
Parpling the orient — till it breaks away, 
And burns and blazes into glorious day ! 
But happier still is he who bends to trace 
That sun, the soul, just dawning in the face ; 
The burst, the glow, the animating strife, 
The thoughts and passions stirring into life ; 
[The forming utterance, the inquiring glance, 
15 



^1 





The giant v/aking from his ten-fold trance, 
Till up he starts as conscious whence he came,, 
And all is light -within the trembling frame ! 

What then a Father's feelings ? Joy and Fear 
Prevail in turn, Joy most ; and through the year 
Tempering the ardent, urging night and day 
Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way, 
Praising each highly — from a wish to raise 
'I'heir merits to the level of his Praise. 
Onward in their observing sight he moves, 
Fearful oi v»'rong, in awe of whom he loves ! 
Their sacred presence who shall dare profane ? 
Who, when He slumbers hope to fix a stain? 
He lives a model in his life to show, 
That, when he dies and through the world they 

go, 
Some men may pause and say, when some ad- 
mire, 
*' They are his sons, and worthy of their sire !" 

But Man is born to suffer. On the door 
Sickness has set her mark ; and now no more 
Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild 
As of a mother singing to her child. 
All now in anguish from that room retire, 
Where a young cheek glows with consuming 

fire. 
And Innocence breathes contagion — all but one, 
But she who gave it birth — from her alone 
The medicine-cup is taken. Through the night, 
And through the day, that with its dreary light 
Comes unregarded, she sits silent by, 
Watching the changes with her anxious eye': 



Cl 



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.41 



1 



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HUMAN LIFE. 

While they without, Ustening below, above, 
(Who but in sorrow know how much they love?) 
From every little noise catch hope and fear, 
Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear. 
Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness 
That would in vain the starting tear repress. 

Such grief was ours — it seems but yesterday— 
When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, 
"I* was thine, Maria, thine without a sigh 
At midnight in a Sister's arms to die I 
Oh thou wert lovely — lovely was thy frame. 
And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came ! 
And, when recall'd to join the blest above, 
Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love, 
Nursing the young to health. In happier hours, 
When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers. 
Once in thy mirth thou bad' st me write on thee ; 
And now I write — what thou shall never see ! 

At length the Father, vain his power to save, 
Follows his child in silence to the grave, 
(That child how cherish' d, whom he would not 

. give, 
Sleeping the sleep of death, for all that live !) 
Takes a last look, when, not unheard, the spade 
Scatters the earth as "dust to dust" is said. 
Takes a last look and goes ; his best relief 
Consoling others in that hour of grief. 
And with sweet tears and gentle words infusing 
The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing. 

— But hark, the din of arms ! no time for sor- 
, row 
To horse, to horse ! A day of blood to-morrow! 



1 



fy 






228 



HUMAN LIFE. 



K? 



Onepartiii^ pang, and then — and then I fly, 
Fly to the field, to triumph — or to die ! — . 
He goes, and Night comes on as it never came. 
With shrieks of horror ! — and a vauh of flame ! 
And lo ! when morning mocks the desolate, 
Red runs the river by ; and at the gate 
Breathless a horse without his rider stands ! 
But hush ! — a shout from the victorious bands ! 
And oh the smiles and tears, a sire restored ! 
One wears his helm, one buckles on his sword; 
One hangs the wall with laurel-leaves, and all 
Spring to prepare the soldier's festival; 
While She best-loved, till then forsaken never, 
Clings round his neck as she would cling forever! 

Such golden deeds lead on to golden days, 
Days of domestic peace — by him who plays 
On the great stage how uneventful thought; 
Yet with a thousand busy projects fraught, 
A thousand incidents that stir the mind 
To pleasure, such as leaves no sting behind ! 
Such as the heart delights in — and records 
Within how silently — in more than words! 
A Holiday — the frugal banquet spread 
On the fresh herbage near the fountain-head 
With quips and cranks — what time the wood- 
lark there 
Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air, 
What time the king-fisher sits perch'd below. 
Where, silver-bright, the water-lilies blow :— 
A Wake — the booths whitening the village- 
green, % 
Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen • 



\1 



.4" 



HUMAN 








Sign beyond sign in close array unfurl' d, 
Picturing at large the wonders of the world ; 
And far and wide, over the vicar's pale, 
Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale, 
All, all abroad, and music in the gale : — 
A Wedding-dance — a dance into the night 
On the bar;i-iloor, when maiden-feet are light; 
When the young bride receives the promised 

dower. 

And flowers are flung, herself a fairer flower :— ■ 
A morning visit to the poor man's shed. 
(Who would be rich while One was wanting 

bread ?) 
When all are emulous to bring relief, 
And tears are falling fast — but not for grief: — 
A Walk in Spring — Grattan, like those with 

thee. 
By the heath-side (who had not envied me ?) 
When the sweet limes, so full of bees in June, 
Led us to meet beneath their boughs at noon; 
And thou didst say v,'hich of the Great and 

Wise, 
Could they but hear and at thy bidding rise, 
Thou woaldst call ap and question. 

Graver things 
Come in their turn. Morning, and Evening, 



Ct 





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230 



HUMAN LIFE 




The pathivay leading through ihe aged yews, 
Nor unattended ; and, when all are there, 
Pours out his spirit in the House of Prayer, 
That House with many a funeral-garland hung 
Of virgin- white — memorials of the young, 
The last yet fresh when marriage-chimes were 

ringing, 
And hope and joy in other hearts were springing ; 
That house, where Age led in by Filial Love, 
Their looks composed, their thoughts on things 

above, 

The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgiven • 

Who w^ould not say they trod the path to 

Heaven ? 
Nor at the fragrant hour — at early dawn — 
Under the elm-tree on his level lawn. 
Or in his porch is he less duly found, 
When they that cry for Justice gather round, 
And in that cry her sacred voice is drown'd 
His then to hear and weigh and arbitrate, 
Like Alfred judging at his palace-gate. 
Heal'd at his touch, the wounds of discord close ; 
And they return as friends, that came as foes. 
Thus, while the world but claims its proper 

part. 
Oft in the head, but never in the heart, 
His life steals on ; within his quiet dwelling 
That home-felt joy all other joys exceUing. 
Sick of the crowd, when enters he — nor then 
Forgets the cold indifference of men ? 
-Soon through the gadding vine the sun 

.ooks in, 




t^. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



231 



And gentle hands the breakfast-rite begin. 
Then the bright kettle sings its matin-song, 
Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong 
Blend as they rise ; and (while without are seen 
Sure of their meal, the small birds on the green ; 
And in from far a school-bay's letter flies, 
Flushing the sister's cheek with glad surprise) 
That sheet unfolds (who reads, that reads it not ?) 
Born with the day and with the day forgot; 
Its ample page various as human life, 

The pomp, the woe, the bustle and the strife ! tttx *■ 

But nothing lasts. In Autumn at his plow ^ *v 

Met and solicited, behold him now 
Leaving that humbler sphere his fathers knew. 
The sphere that Wisdom loves — and Virtue too, 
She who subsists not on the vain applause 
Misjudging man now gives and now withdraws. 
"I'was morn — the sky-lark o'er the furrow 

sung, 
As from his lips the slow consent was wrung ; 
As from the glebe his fathers till'd of old, 
The plov/ they guided in an age of gold, 
Down by the beech- wood side he turn'd away: — 
And now behold him in an evil day 
Serving the State again — not as before, 
Not foot to foot, the war-whoop at his door, — ^ 

But in the Senate : and (though round him fly *'' 

The jest, the sneer, the subtle sophistry, 
With honest dignity, with manly sense. 
And every charm of natural eloquence, 
Like Hampden struggling in his Country's 

cause, 




.1 



232 



HUMAN LIFE. 



The first, the foremost to obey the laws, 
The last to brook oppression. On he moves, 
Careless of blame while his own heart approves, 
Careless of ruin — (" For the general good 
'T is not the first time I shall shed my blood.") 
On through that gate misnamed, through which 

before 
Went Sidney, Russel, Raleigh, Cranmer, More, 
On into twilight within walls of stone. 
Then to the place of trial ; and alone, 
Alone before his judges in array 
Stands for his life : there, on that awful day. 
Counsel of friends — all human help denied — 
All but from her who sits the pen to guide. 
Like that sweet Saint who sate by Russel's side. 
Under the Judgment-seat, — Butguihy men 
Triumph not always. To his hearth again, 
Again with honour to his hearth restored, 
Lo, in the accustom'd chair and at the board, 
Thrice greeting those who most withdraw their 

claim, 
(The lowliest servant calling by his name) 
He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all, 
All met as at a holy festival ! 
— On the day destined for his funeral ! 
Lo, there the Friend, who entering where he 

lay, 
Breathed in his drowsy ear, '' Away, away.' 
Talie thou my cloak— Nay , start not, but obey — 
Take it and leave- me." And the blushing 

Maid, 





^'J 



m 






HUMAN LIFE. 

Who through the streets as through a desert 

stray 'd; 
And, when her dear, dear Father pass'd along, 
Would not be held — but, bursting through the 

throng, 
Halberd and battle-axe— kiss' d him- o'er and 

o'er ; 
Then turn'd and went — then sought him as 

before, 
Believing she should see his face no more ! 
And oh, how changed at once — no heroine here, 
But a weak woman worn with grief and fear, 
Her darling Mother! 'Twas but now she 

smiled, 
And now she weeps upon her weeping child 
— But who sits by, her only wish below 
At length fulfiird— and now prepared to go? 
His hands on hers — as through the mists of night 
She gazes on him with imperfect sight ; 
Her glory now, as ever her delight ! 
To her, methinks, a second Vouth is given ; 
The light upon her face a light from Heaven ! 

An hour like this is worth a thousand pass'd 
In pomp or ease — 'T is present to the last ! 
Years glide away untold — 'T is still the same ! 
As fresh, as fair as on the day it came ! 

And now once more where most he loved to be 
In his own fields — breathing tranquility — 
We hail him— not less happy. Fox, than thee ! 
Thee at St. Anne's so soon of care beguiled, 
Playful, sincere, and artless as a child! 





7-% 




>Q 





HUMAN LIFE. 

Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's nest on the 

spray 
Through the green leaves exploring, day by day. 
How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat, 
With thee conversing in thy loved retreat, 
I saw the sun go down ! — Ah, then 't was 

thine 
Ne'er to forget some volume half divine, 
Shakspear's or Dryden's — through the chequer'd 

shade 
Borne in thy hand behind thee as we stray'd ; 
And where we sate (and many a halt we made) 
To read there with a fervour all thy own, 
And in thy grand and melancholy tone. 
Some splendid passage not to thee unknown, 
Fit theme for long discourse — Thy bell has 

toll'd! 
— But in thy place among us we behold 
One who resembles thee. 

'T is the sixth hour. 
The village-clock strikes from the distant tower. 
The plowman leaves the field ; the traveller 

hears, 
And to the inn spurs forwara. Nature wears 
Her sweetest smile ; the day-star in the west 
Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest. 
And such, his labour done, the calm He 

knows. 
Whose footsteps we have follow'd. Round him 

glows 
An atmosphere that brightens to the last 





r 



HUMAN LIFE 




The light, that shines, reflected from the Past, 
— And from the Future too ! Active in Thought 
Among old books old friends ; and not un- 
sought 
By the wise stranger — in his morning-hours, 
When gentle airs stir the fresh-blowing flowers, 
He muses, turning up the idle weed ; 
Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead 
Watches his bees at hiving-time ; and now, 
The ladder resting on the orchard-bough, 
Culls the delicious fruit that hangs in air, 
The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear, 
'Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there. 
At night, when all, assembling round the fire, 
Closer and closer draw till they retire, 
A tale is told of India or Japan, 
Of merchants from Golcond or Astracan, 
What time wild Nature revell'd unrestrain'd. 
And Sinbad voyaged and the Caliphs reign'd :— 
Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale 
Rings in her shrouds and beats her iron-sail, 
Among the snowy Alps of Polar seas 
Immovable — for ever there to freeze ! 
Or some great caravan, from well to well 
Winding as darkness on the desert fell, 
In their long march, such as the Prophet bidSj 
To Mecca from the land of Pyramids, 
And in an instant lost — a hollow wave 
Of burning sand their everlasting grave ! — 
Now the scene shifts to Venice — to a square 
Glittering with light, all nations masking there, 
With light ref.3cted on the tremulous tide, 






y. 



236 




HUMAN LIFE. 



Where gondolas in gay confusion glide, 
Answering the jest, the song on every side ; 
To Naples next — and at the crowded gate, 
Where Grief and Fear and wild Amazement 

wait, 
Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire, 
Vesuvius blazing like a World on fire ! — 
Then, at a sign that never was forgot, 
A strain breaks forth (who hears and loves it 

not?) 
From lute or organ ! 'T is at parting given. 
That in their slumbers they may dream of 

Heaven ; 
Young voices mingling as it floats along, 
In Tuscan air or Handel's sacred song ! 

And She inspires, whose beauly shines in all ; 
So soon to weave a daughter's coronal, 
And at the nuptial rite smile through her 

tears ; — 
So soon to hover round her full of fears. 
And with assurance sweet her soul revive 
In child-birth — when a mother's love is most 

alive. 
No, 't is not here that Solitude is known. 
Through ihe wide world he only is alone 
Who lives not for another. Come what will, 
The generous man has his companion still ; 
The cricket on his hearth ; the buzzing fly 
That skims his roof, or, be his roof the sky. 
Still with its note of gladness passes by: 
And, in an iron cage condemn'd to dwell. 
The cage that stands within the dungeon-ce 






HUMAN LIFE. 




He feeds his spider — happier at the worst 
Than he at large who in himself is curst. 

O ihou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind 
Streams from the depth of ages on mankind, 
Streams hke the day — who, angel-hke, hast 

shed 
Thy full effulgence on the hoary head, 
Speaking in Cato's venerable voice, 
"Look up, and faint not — faint not, but re- 
joice !'" 
From thy Elysium guide him. Age has now 
Stamp' d with its signet that ingenious brow ; 
And, 'mid his old hereditary trees. 
Trees he has climb'd so oft, he sits and sees 
His children's children playing round his knees : 
Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is 

flung, 
When side by side the archer's bows are 

strung ; 
His to prescribe the place, adjudge the prize, 
Envying no more the young their energies 
Than they an old man when his words are wise ; 
His a delight how pure — without alloy ; 
Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy ! 

Now in their turn assisting, they repay 
The anxious cares of many and many a day ; 
And now by those he loves relieved, restored, 
His very wants and weaknesses afford 
A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks, 
Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks, 
While they look up ! Their questions, their 
repUes, 



f 





HUMAN LIFE. 

Fresh as the welhng waters, round him rise, 
Gladdening his spirit : and, his tlieme the past, 
How eloquent he is ! His tlioughts flow fast. 
And, while his heart (oh can the heart grow old ? 
False are the tales that in the World are told !) 
Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end ; 
Like one discoursing of an absent friend. 

But there are moments which he calls his own, 
Then, never less alone than when alone, 
Those that he loved so long and sees no more, 
Loved and still loves — not dead — but gone 

before, 
He gathers round him ; and revives at will 
Scenes in his life — that breathe enchantment 

still- 
That come not now at dreary intervals — 
But where a light as from the Blessed falls, 
A light such guests bring ever — pure and holy — 
Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy. 
— Ah then less willing (nor the choice condemn) 
To live with others than to think on them ! 

And now behold him up the hill ascending, 
Memory and Hope like evening-stars attendhig ; 
Sustain'd, excited, till his course is run, 
By deeds of virtue done or to be done. 
When on his couch he sinks at length to rest. 
Those by his counsel saved, his power redress'd. 
Those by the World shunn'd ever as unblest, 
At whom the rich man's dog growls from the 

gate, 
But whom he sought out, sitting desolate, 



HUMAN LIFE, 






Come and stand round — tne widow with her 

child, 
As when she first forgot her tears and smiled ! 
They, who watch by him, see not ; but he sees, 
Sees and exults — Were ever dreams like these ? 
They, who watch by him, hear not; but he hears, 
And earth recedes, and Heaven itself appears ! 

' T is past! That hand we grasp' d, alas, in vain! 
Nor shall we look upon his face again ! 
But to his closing eyes, for all were there, 
Nothing was wanting; and, through many a year, 
We shall remember with a fond delight 
The words so precious which we heard to-night; 
His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows, 
Like setting suns or music at the close 1 

Then was the drama ended. Not till then, 
So full of chance and change the lives of men. 
Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure 
From pain, from grief, from all that we endure, 
He slept in peace — say rather soar'd to Heaven, 
Upborne from Earth by Him to whom 'tis 

given 
In his right hand to hold the golden key 
That opes the portals of Eternity. 
— When by a good man's grave I nmse alone, 
Methinks an angel sits upon the stone ; 
Like those of old, on that thrice-hallow'd night, 
Who sate and watch' d in raiment heavenly- 
bright ; 
And,»with a voice inspiring joy, not fear. 
Says, pointing upward, that he is not here, 
That he is risen ! 




I' 





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IIVJ-.WN LIFE. 

Bat the day is spent , 
And stars are kindling in the firmament, 
To us how silent — though like ours perchance 
Busy and full of life and circumstance ; 
Where some the paths of Wealth and Power 

pursue, 
Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few ; 
And, as the sun goes round — a sun not ours — 
While from her lap another Nature showers 
Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire, 
Think on themselves," within, without inquire; 
At distance dwell on all that passes there. 
All that their world reveals of good and fair ; 
And, as they wander, picturing things, like me, 
Not as they are, but as they ought to be, 
Trace out the Journey through their little Day, 
And fondly dream an idle hour away. 




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AN EPISTLE TO A FRIENlJ 



— et pauper agelle, 



Villula, — . . ^ , 

Me tibi, el hos una mecum, et quos semper amavi, 

Commendo, 



PREFACE. 

EvEUY reader turns with pleasure to those 
passages of Horace, and Pope, and Boileau, 
which describe how they lived and where they 
dwelt ; and which, being interspersed among 
their satirical writings, derive a secret and irre- 
sistible grace from the contrast, and are admira- 
ble examples of what in Painting is termed re- 
pose. 

We have admittance to Horace at all hours. 
We enjoy the company and conversation at his 
table; and his suppers, like Plato's, " non 
solum in praesentia, sed etiam postero die jucun- 
das sunt." But when we look round as we sit 
there, we find ourselves in a Sabine farm, and 
not in a Roman villa. His windows have every 
charm of prospect ; but his furniture might have 
descended from Cincinnatus; and gems, and pic- 
tures, and old marbles, are mentioned by him 
more than once with a seeming indifference. 

His English Imitator thought and felt, perhaps, 

more correctly on the sabiect : and embeUished 
16 • ' 241 



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his garden and grotto with great industry and 
success. But to these alone he solicits our no- 
tice. On the ornaments of his house he is silent; 
and he appears to have reserved all the minuter 
touches ot his pencil for the library, the chapel, 
and the banqueting-room of Timon. " Le sa- 
voir de notre siecle," says Rousseau, " tend 
beaucoup plus t detruire qu'i edifier. On cen- 
sure d'un ton de maitre ; pour proposer, il en 
faut prendre un autre." 

It is the design of this Epistle to illustrate the 
virtue of True Taste ; and to show how little 
she requires to secure, not only the comforts, 
but even the elegancies of life. True Taste is 
an excellent Economist. She confines her choice 
to few objects, and delights in producing great 
effects by small means : while False ^I'aste is 
for ever sighing after the new and the rare ; and 
reminds us, in her works, of the Scholar of 
Apelles, who, not being able lo paint his Helen 
beautiful, determined to make her fine. 



ARGUMENT. 
An invitalron— The approach to a Villa described— Ita 
situation— Its few apartments— furnished with casts 
from the Antique, etc.— The diniaj^'-room^ihe library 
—A cold-bath— A winter-walk— A suniiner-walk— The 
iavilalion renewed— Conclusion 



When, with a Reaimiur's skill, thy curious 
mind 






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AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 



243 



Has class' d the insect-tribes of human kind, 
Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing. 
Its subtle net-work, or its venom'd sting ; 
Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours, 
Point out the green lane rough with fern and 

flowers ; 
The shelter' d gate that opens to my field, 
And the white front through mingling elms re- 
veal'd. 

In vain, alas, a village-friend invites 
To simple comforts, and domestic rites, 
When the gay months of Carnival resume 
Their annual round of glitter and perfume ; 
When London hails thee in its splendid mart, 
Its hives of sweets, and cabinets of art ; 
And, lo, majestic as thy manly song, 
Flows the full tide of human life along. 

Still must my partial pencil love to dwell 
On the home-prospects of ray hermit-cell ; 
The mossy pales that skirt the orchard-green, 
Here hid by shrub-wood, there by ghmpses 
seen ; 

And the brown pathway, that, with careless 

flow, 
Sinks, and is lost among the trees below. 
Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive) 
Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live. 
Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass 
Browsing the hedge by fits the pamiier'd ass; 
The idhng shepherd-boy, with rude delight, 
Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight , 
And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid, 







244 



AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 



With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade. 
Far to the south a mountain- vale retires, 
Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-spires: 
Its upland- lawns, and cliffs with foliage hung. 
Its wizard- stream, nor nameless nor unsung : 
And through the various year, the various day, 
What scenes of glory burst, and melt away ! 
When April-verdure springs in Grosvenor- 
square, 
And the furr'd Beauty comes to winter there, 
She bids old Nature mar the plan no more ; 
Yet still the seasons circle as before. 
Ah, still as soon the young Aurora plays. 
Though moons and flambeaux trail their broad- 
est blaze, 
As soon the sky-lark pours his matin-song, 
Though evening lingers at the mask so long. 

There let her strike with momentary ray, 
As tapers shine their little lives away ; 
There let her practise from herself to steal, 
And look the happiness she does not feel ; 
The ready smile and hidden blush employ 
At Faro-routs that dazzle to destroy ; 
Fan with affected ease the essenced air. 
And lisp of fashions with unmeaning stare. 
Be thine to meditate an humbler flight, 
When morning fills the fields with rosy light ; 
Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim, 
Repose with dignity, with quiet fame. 

Here no state-chambers in long line unfold, 
Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted 
gold; 








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AN EPTSTLE TO A FRIEND. 





245 



Yet modest ornament, with use combined, 

Attracts the eye to exercise the mind. 

Small change of scene, small space his home 

requires, 
Who leads a life of satisfied deSires. 

What though no marble breathes, no canvass 

glows, 
From every point a ray of genius flows ! 
Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, 
'I'hat stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; 
And cheaply circulates, through distant climes, 
The fairest relics of the purest times. 
Here from the mould to conscious being start 
Those finer forms, the miracles of art ; 
Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, 
That slept for ages in a second mine ; 
And here the faithful graver dares to trace 
A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphael's grace ! 
Thy Gallery, Florence, gilds my humble 

walls. 
And my low roof the Vatican recalls ! 

Soon as the morning-dream my pillow flies, 
To waking sense what brighter visions rise ! 
O mark ! again the courses of the Sun, 
At Guido's call, their round of glory run! 
Again the rosy Hours resume their fiight, 
Obscured and lost in floods of golden light ! 

But could thine erring friend so long forget 
(Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret) 
That here its warmest hues the pencil flings, 
Lo ' here the lost restores, the absent brings ; 
And still the Few best loved and most revered 



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AN EPISTLE TO A KRIEND. 

Rise round the board their social smile endear'd ! 
Selected shelves shall claim thy studious 

hours ; 
There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers ! 
There, while flie shaded lamp's mild lustre 

streams, 
Read ancient books, or dream inspiring dreams ; 
And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there, 
Pause, and his features with his thoughts 

compare. 
— Ah, most that Art my grateful rapture calls, 
Which breathes a soul into the silent walls ; 
Which gathers round the Wise of every Tongue, 
All on whose words departed nations hung ; 
Still prompt to charm with many a converse 

sweet ; 
Guides in the world, companions in retreat ! 
Though my thatch'd bath no rich Mosiac 

knows, 
A limped stream with unfelt current flows, 
Emblem of Life ! which, still as we survey. 
Seems motionless, yet ever glides away ! 
The shadowy walls record, with Attic art. 
The strength and beauty that its waves impart. 
Here Thetis, bending, with a mother's fears 
Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his 

tears. 
There, Venus, rising, shrinks with sweet 

surprise. 
As her fair self reflected seems to rise I 
Far from the joyless glare, the maddening 

strife, 



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247 



And all the dull impertinence of life, 

These eye-lids open to the rising ray, 

Arkd close, when nature bids, at close of day. 

Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape 

glows ; 
There noon-day levees call from faint repose. 
Here the flush' d wave flings back the parting 

light ; 
There glimmering lamps anticipate the night. 
When from his classic dreams the student 

steals, 
Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels, 
To muse unnoticed — ^while around him press 
The meteor- forms of equipage and dress ; 
Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand 
A very stranger in his native land ! 
And (though perchance of current coin possest, 
And modern phrase by living lips exprest) 
Like those blest Youths, forgive the fabling 

Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight age, 
Spent in sweet slumbers ; till the miner's spade 
Unclosed the cavern, and the morning play'd. 
Ah ! what their strange supplies, their wild 

delight ! 
New arts of life, new manners meet their sight ! 
In a new world they wake as from the dead ; 
Yet doubt the trance dissolved, the vision fled ! 

O come, and, rich in intellectual wealth. 
Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge 

health ! 
Long, in this shelter'd scene of letter'd talk, 



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AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 



With sober step repeat the pensive walk ; 
Nor scorn, when graver triflings fail to please, 
The cheap amusements of a mind at ease ; 
Here every care in sweet oblivion cast, 
And many an idle hour — not idly pass'd. 

No tuneful echoes, ambushM at my gate, 
Catch the blest accents of the wise and great. 
Vain of its various page, no Album breathes 
The sigh that Friendship or the Muse bequeaths. 
Yet some good Genii o'er my hesrrth preside, 
Oft the far friend, with secret spell, to guide ; 
And there I trace, when the gray evening lours, 
A silent chronicle of happier hours I 

When Christmas revels in a world of snow, 
And bids her berries blush, her carols flow ; 
His spangling shower when Frost the wizard 

flings ; 
Or, borne in elher blue, on viewless wings, 
O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves, 
And gems with icicles the sheltering eves ; 
— Thy niufiled friend his nectarine-wall pursues, 
What time the snn the yellow crocus wooes. 
Screened from the arrowy North; and duly 

hies. 
To meet the morning-rumour as it flies ; 
To range the murmuring market-place, and 

vievv 
The motley groups that faithful Teniers drew. 
When Spring bursts forth in blossoms through 

the vale. 
And her wild music triumphs on the gale. 
Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile ; 




AN EPISTLE TC A FRIEND. 



249 



Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile, 
Framing loose numbers, till declining day- 
Through the green trellis shoots a crimson ray ; 
Till the West-wind leads on the twilight hours, 
And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers. 

Nor boast, O Choisy ! seat of soft dehght, 
The secret charm of thy voluptuous night. 
Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of power ! 
Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour, 
Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen, 
Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene, 
To hail our coming. Not a step profane 
Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite re- 
strain ; 
And, while the frugal banquet glows reveal' d, 
Pure and unbought, — the natives of my field ; 
While blushing fruits through scatter' d leaves 

invite. 
Still clad in bloom, and veil'd in azure light! 
With wine, as rich in years as Horace sings, 
With water, clear as his own fountain flings, 
The shifting side-board plays its humbler part, 
Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art. 

Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught 
With mental light, and luxury of thought, • 
My life steals on ; (O could it blend with thine !) 
Careless my course, yet not without design. 
So through the vales of Loire the bee-hives 

glide, 
The light raft dropping with the silent tide ; 
So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night, 
The busy people wing their various flight, 



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AN EPISTLE TO 





Culling unnumber'd sweets from nameless 

flowers, 
That scent the vineyard in its purple hours. 

Rise, ere the watch- relieving clarions play, 
Caught through St. James's groves a blush of 

day ; 
Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings 
Through trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. 
Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease, 
Though skill'd alike to dazzle and to please ; 
Though each gay scene be search' d with 

anxious eye, 
Nor thy shut door be pass'd without a sigh. 

If,when this roof shall know thy friend no more, 
Some, form'd like thee, should once, like thee, 

explore ; 

Invoke the lares of this loved retreat, 
And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet ; 
Then be it said, (as, vain of better days. 
Some grey domestic prompts the partial praise) 
" Unknown he lived, unenvied, not unblest ; 
Reason his guide, and Happiness his guest. 
In the clear mirror of his moral page, 
We trace the manners of a purer age. 
His soul, with thirst of genuine glory fraught, 
Scorn'd the false lustre of licentious thought. 
— One fair asylum from the world he knew. 
One chosen seat, that charms with various view ! 
Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain) 
Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas ! in vain. 
Through each he roves the tenant of a day. 
And, with the swallow, wings the year away !" 



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JACQUELINE. 



\1 



*T WAS Autumn ; through Provence had ceased 

The vintage, and the vintage-feast. 

The sun had set behind the hill, 

The moon was up, and all was still, 

And from the convent's neighbouring tower 

The clock had toU'd the midnight-hour, 

When Jacqueline came forth alone, 

Her kerchief o'er her tresses thrown; 

A guilty thing and full of fears. 

Yet ah, how lovely in her tears! 

She starts, and what has caught her eye ? 

What — but her shadow gliding by ? 

She stops, she pants ; with lips apart 

She listens — to her beating heart ! 

Then, through the scanty orchard stealing, 

The clustering boughs her track concealing, 

She flies, nor casts a thought behind, 

But gives her terrors to the wind ; 

Flies from her home, the humble sphere 

Of all her joys and sorrows here. 

Her father's house of mountain-stone, 

And by a mountain-vine o'ergrown. 

At such an hour in such a night, 

251 



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252 



JACQUELINE. 



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So calm, so clear, so heavenly bright, 
Who would have seen, and not confesaV 
It looked as all within were blest ? 
What will not woman, when she loves f 
Yet lost, alas, who can restore her ?- 
She lifts the latch, the wicket moves 
And now the world is all before her. 

Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone, 
And Jacqueline, his child, was gone ! 
Oh what the madd'ning thought that came f 
Dishonour coupled with his name I 
By Conde at Rocroy he stood ; 
By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood; 
Two banners of Castile he gave 
Aloft in Notre Dame to wave ; 
Nor did thy Cross, St. Louis, rest 
Upon a purer, nobler breast. 
He slung his old sword by his side, 
And snatch'd his staff and rush'd to save ; 
Then sunk — and on his threshold cried, 
" Oh lay me in my grave ! 
— Constance ! Claudine ! where were ye then? 
But stand not there. Away ! away I 
Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay. 
Though old, and now forgot of men, 
Both must not leave him in a day." 
Then, and he shook his hoary head, 
" Unhappy in thy youth !" he^ said. 
*' Call as thou wilt, thou call'st in vain ; 
No voice sends back thy name again. 
To mourn is all thou hast to do ; 
Thy play-mate lost, and teacher too." 



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253 



And who but she could aoothe the boy. 
Or turn his tears to tears of joy ? 
Long had she kiss'd him as he slept, 
Long o'er his pillow hung and wept; 
And, as she pass'd her father's door, 
She stood as she would stir no more. 
But she is gone, and gone for ever ! 
No, never shall they clasp her — never ! 
They sit and listen to their fears ; 
And he, who through the breach had led 
Over the dying and the dead, 
Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears I 

Oh ! she was good as she was fair ; 
None — none on earth above her 1 
As pure in thought as angels are. 
To know her was to love her. 
When Uttle, and her eyes, her voice, 
Her every gesture said "rejoice," 
Her coming was a gladness ; 
And, as she grew, her modest grace. 
Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace, 
When, shading with her hand her face 
She half inclined to sadness. 
Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted, 
Like music to the heart it went. 
And her dark eyes— how eloquent ! 
Ask wliat they woi Id, 't was granted. 
Her father loved her as his fame ; 
— And Bayard's self had done the same ! 

Soon as the sun the glittering pane 
On the red floor in diamonds threw, 
His songs she sung and sung again, 



^ 




JACQUELINE. 




Till the Last light withdrew. 

Every day, and all day long, 

He mused or sluniber'd to a song. 

But she is dead to him, to all ! 

Her lute hangs silent on the wall ; 

And on the stairs, and at the door 

Her fairy-step is heard no more ! 

At every meal an empty chair 

Tells him that she is not there ; 

She, who would lead him where he went, 

Charm with her converse while he leant ; 

Or, hovering, every w'ish prevent ; 

At eve light up the chimney-nook, 

Lay there his glass within his book ; 

And that small chest of curious mould, 

(Queen Mab's, perchance, in days of old,) 

Tusk of elephant and gold ; 

Which, when a tale is long, dispenses 

Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses. 

In her whomourn'd not, when they miss'd her 

The old a child, the young a sister ? 

No more the orphan runs to take 

From her loved hand the barley-cake. 

No more the matron in the school 

Expects her in the hour of rule, 

To sit amid the elfin brood, 

Praising the busy and the good. 

The widow trims her hearth in vain, 

She comes not — nor will come again ! 

Not now, his little lesson done, 

With Frederic blowing bubbles in the sun; 

Nor spinning by the fountain-side, 



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JACQUELINE 




(Some story of the days of old, 

Barbe Bleue or Chaper9n Rouge half- told 

To him who would not be denied ;) 

Not now, to while an hour away, 

Gone to the falls in Valombre, 

Where 't is night at noon of day ; 

Nor wandering up and down the wood, 

To all but her a solitude, 

Where once a wild deer, wild no more, 

Her chaplet on his antlers wore. 

And at her bidding stood. 

II. 

The day was in the golden west ; 

And, curtain'd close by leaf and flower. 

The doves had cooed themselves to rest 

In Jacqueline's deserted bower ; 

The doves — that still would at her casement 

peck, 
And in her walks had ever flutter'd round 
With purple feet and shining neck, 
True as the echo to the sound. 
That casement, underneath the trees, 
Half open to the western breeze, 
Look'd down, enchanting Garoionelle, 
Thy wild and mulberry-shaded dell, 
Round which the Alps of Peidmont rose, 
The blush of sun-set on their snows : 
While, blithe as lark on summer-morn. 
When green and yellow waves the corn, 
When harebells blow in every grove, 






JACQUEIJNE. 

And thrushes sing " I love ! I love!"* 
Within (so soon the early rain 
Scatters, and 'tis fair again; 
Though many a drop may yet be seen 
To tell us where a cloud has been) 
Within lay Frederic, o'er and o'er 
Building castles on the floor, 
And feigning, as they grew in size, 
New troubles and new dangers ; 
With dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes. 
As he and Fear were strangers. 

St. Pierre sat by, nor saw nor smiled. 
His eyes were on his loved Montaigne ; 
But every leaf was turn'd in vain. 
Then in that hour remorse he felt, 
And his heart told him he had dealt 
Unkindly with his child. 
A father may awhile refuse ; 
Yet who can for another choose ? 
When her young blushes had reveal'd 
The secret from herself conceal' d. 
Why promise what her tears denied. 
That she should be De Courcy's bride ? 
— Wouldst thou, presumptuous as thou art, 
O'er Nature play the tyrant's part, 
And with the hand compel the heart ? 
Oh rather, rather hope to bind 
The ocean-wave, the mountain-wind ; 
Or fix thy foot upon the ground 

♦ Cantando " lo amo ! lo amo l—Tasao. 





JACQUELINE. 

To stop the planet rolling round. 

The light was on his face ; and there 
You might have seen the passions driven— 
Resentment, Pity, Hope, Despair — 
Like clouds across the face of Heaven, 
Now he sigh'd heavily ; and now, 
His hand v/ithdrawing from his brow. 
He shut the volume with a frown, 
To walk his troubled spirit down : 
— When (faithful as that dog of yore* 
Who wagg'd his tail and could no more) 
Manchon, who long had snuff'd the ground, 
And sought and sought, but never found, 
Leapt up and to the casement flew, 
And look'd and bark'd and vanish' d through. 
" 'T is Jacqueline ! 'T is Jacqueline '■" 
Her little brother laughing cried. 
" I know her by her kirtle green, 
She comes along the mountain-side ; 
Now turning by the traveller's seat, — 
Now resting in the hermit's cave, — 
Now kneeling, where the pathways meet. 
To the cross on the stranger's grave. 
And by the soldier's cloak, I know 
(There, there along the ridge they go) 
D'Arcy, so gentle and so brave ! 
Look up — why will you not ?" he cries 
His rosy hands before his eyes ; 
For on that incense-breathing eve 
The sun shone out, as loth to leave. 

♦ Aigus. 
17 




JACQUELINE 





*' See to the rugged rock she clings ! 

She calls, she faints, andD'Arcy springs 

D' Arcy so dear to us, to all ; 

Who, for you told me on your knee, 

When in the fight he saw you fall, 

Saved you for Jacqueline and me !" 

And true it was ! And true the tale ! 
When did she sue and not prevail ? 
Five years before — it was the night 
That on the village-green they parted, 
The lilied banners streaming bright 
O'er maids and mothers broken-hearted; 
The drum — it drown' d the last adieu, 
When D' Arcy from the crowd she drew. 
"One charge I have, and one alone, 
Nor that refuse to take, 
My father— if not for his own. 
Oh for his daughter's sake !" 
Inly he vow'd — " 't was all he could !" 
And went and seal'd it with his blood. 

Nor can ye wonder. When a child. 
And in her playfulness she smiled, 
Up many a ladder-path* he guided 
Where meteor-like the chamois glided, 
Through many a misty grove. 
They loved — but under Friendship's name 
And Reason, Virtue fann'd the flame ; 
Till in their houses Discord came, 
And 't was a crime to love. 
Then what was Jacqueline to do ? 

♦Called in the language of the country pas de V Echelie 




JACQUELINE. 259 

Her father's angry hours she knew, 
And when to soothe, and when persuade; 
But now her path De Courcy cross'd, 
/-f^/f Led by his falcon through the glade — 

He turn'd, beheld, admired the maid ; 
And all her little arts were lost ! 
De Courcy, lord of Argentiere ! 
Thy poverty, thy pride, St. Pierre, 
Thy thirst for vengeance sought the snare 
The day was named, the guests invited ; 
The bridegroom, at the gate, alighted; 
When up the windings of the dell 
A pastoral pipe was heard to swell, 
And lo, an humble Peidmontese, 
Whose music might a lady please, 
This message through the lattice bore, 
(She listen' d, and her trembling frame 
Told her at once from whom it came"* 
" Oh let us fly — to part no more!" 

HI. 

That morn ('twas in Ste Juhenne's cell. 

As at Ste Julienne's sacred well 

Their dream of love began), 

That morn, ere many a star v^'-as set, 

Their hands had on the altar met 

Before the holy man. 

— And now the village gleams at last ; 

The woods, the golden meadows pass'd. 

Where, when Toulouse, thy splendour shone 

The Troubadour would journey on 

Transported — or, from grove to grove, 



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JACQUELINE. 



Framing some roundelay of love. 

Wander till the day was gone. 

" All will be well, my Jacqueline 

Oh tremble not — but trust in m^ 

The good are better made by ill, 

As odours crush' d are sweeter still ; 

And gloomy as thy past has been, 

Bright shall thy future be !" 

So saying, through the fragrant shade 

Gently along he led the maid, 

While Manchon round and round her play'd : 

And, as that silent glen they leave. 

Where by the spring the pitchers stand, 

Where glow-worms light their lamps at eve, 

And fairies dance — in fairy-land, 

(.When Lubin calls, and Blanche steals round, 

Her linger on her lip, to see ; 

And many an acorn-cup is found 

Under the greenwood tree) 

From every cot above, below, 

'They gather as they go — 

Sabot, and coif, and collerette. 

The housewife's prayer, the grandam's blessing! 

Girls that adjust their locks of jet, 

And look and look and linger yet, 

The lovely bride caressing ; 

Babes that had learnt to lisp her name, 

And heroes he had led to fame. 

But what felt D'Arcy, when at length 
Her father's gate was open flung ? 
Ah, then he found a giant's strength ; 
For round him, as for life she clung ! 



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JACQUELINE. 





And when, her fit of weeping o'er, 
Onward tliey moved a little space, 
And saw an old man sitting at the door, 
Saw his wan cheek, and sunken eye 
That seem'd to gaze on vacancy, 
Then, at (he sight of that beloved face, 
At once to fall upon his neck she flew ; 
But — not encouraged — back she drew, 
And trembling stood in dread suspense, 
Her tears her only eloquence ! 
All, all — the while — an awful distance keeping ; 
Save D'Arcy, who nor speaks nor stirs ; 
And one, his little hand in hers, 
Who weeps to see his sister weeping. 
Then Jacqueline the silence broke. 
She clasp' d her father's knees and spoke, 
Her brother kneeling (oo ; 
While D'Arcy as before look'd on. 
Though from his manly cheek was gone 
Its natural hue. 

" His praises from your lips I heard, 
Till my fond heart was won ; 
And, if in aught his Sire has err'd, 
Oh turn not from the Son ! — 
She, whom in joy, in grief you nursed; 
Who climb'd and call'd you father first, 
By that dear name conjures — 
On her you thought— but to be kind ! 
When look'd you up, but you inclined ? 
These things, for ever in her mind. 
Oh are they gone from yours ? 
Two kneeling at your feet beliold • 



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262 



JACQUELINE 




One — one how young ; — nor yet the other old. 

Oh spurn them not — nor look so cold — 

If Jacqueline be cast away, 

Her bridal be her dying day. 

Well, well might she believe in you !— 

She listen'd, and she found it true." 

He shook his aged locks of snow ; 
And twice he turn'd, and rose to go. 
She hung ; and was St. Pierre to blame, 
If tears and smiles together came ? 
'' Oh no — begone ! I'll hear no more." 
But as he spoke his voice relented. 
" That very look thy mother wore 
When she implored, and old Le Roc consented; 
True, I have done as well as suffer' d wrong, 
Yet once I loved him as my own ! 
— Nor can'st thou, D'Arcy, feel resentment 

long; 
For she herself shall plead, and I atone. 
Henceforth," he paused awhile, unmann'd. 
For D'Arcy's tears bedew'd his hand; 
" Let each meet each as friend to friend, 
All things by all forgot, forgiven. 
And that dear Saint — may she once more de- 
scend 
To make our home a heaven ! — 
But now, in my hands, your's with her's unite. 
A father's blessing on your heads alight .' 

Nor let the least be sent away. 

All hearts shall sing ' Adieu to sorrow !' 

St. Pierre has found his child to-day ; 

And old and young shall dance to-morrow." 



(^ 



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JACQUELINE 



Had Louis* then before the gate dismounted, 
Lost in the chase at set of sun ; 
Like Henry, when he heard recountedt 
The generous deeds himself had done, 
(That night the miller's maid Colette 
Sung, while he supp'd her chansonnette^ 
Then — when St. Pierre address'd his vil/age- 

train, 
Then had the monarch with a sigh confess' d, 
A joy by him unsought and unpossess'd, 
— Without it what are all the rest ? — 
To love and to be loved again. 

♦Louis the Fourteenth. 

t Alluding to a popular story related of Henry tiie 
Fourth of France ; similar to ours of " The K''''g and Mil 
lar of Mansfield." 



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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



THE SAILOR 



The Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, 
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade ; 
He climbs the mast to feed his eye once more, 
And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid. 

Ah ! now each dear, domestic scene he knew, 
Recall'd and cherish'd in a foreign cUme, 
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view ; 
Its colours mellow'd, not impair'd, by time. 

True as the needle, homeward points his heart. 
Through all the horrors of the stormy main ; 
This, the last wish that would with life depart, 
To see the smile of her he loves again. 

When Morn first faintly draws her silver line, 
Or Eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave; 
When sea and sky in midnight-darkness join, 
Still, still he views the parting look she gave. 

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er. 
Attends his little bark from pole to pole ; 



265 



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266 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And when the beating billows round him roar, 
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. 

Carved is her name in many a spicy grove, 
In many a plantain- forest, waving wide ; 
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, 
And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide. 

But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail ! 
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend! 
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the 

gale, 
In each he hears the welcome of a friend. 

— 'T is she, 'tis she herself! she waves her 

hand ! 
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furl'd ; 
Soon through the whitening surge he springs 

to land, 
And clasps the maid he singled from the world. 



WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, 1786. 



While through the broken pane the tempest 

sighs, 
And my step falters on the faithless floor. 
Shades of departed joys around me rise. 
With many a face that smiles on me no more ; 
With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, 
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave ! 




^ 



TO TWO SISTERS.* 



Well may you sit within, and, fond of grief, 
Look in each other's face, and melt in tears. 
Well may you shun all counsel, all relief. 
Oh she was great in mind, though young in 
years ! 

Changed is that lovely countenance, which shed 
Light when she spoke, and kindled sweet sur- 
prise, 
As o'er her frame each warm emotion spread, 
Play'd round her lips, and sparkled in her eyes. 

Those lips so pure, that moved but to persuade 
Still to the last enliven' d and endear' d. 
Those eyes at once her secret soul convey'd, 
And ever beam'd delight when you appear'd. 

Yet has she fled the life of bliss below, 
That youthful Hope in bright perspective drew ? 
False were the tints ! false as the feverish glow 
That o'er her burning cheek distemper threw ! 

And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves ! 
(Glory and joy reserv'd for you to share.) 
Far, far more blest in blessing those she loves 
Than they, alas ! unconscious of her care. 



* On the death of a younger sister. 



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267 





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TO AN OLD OAK. 



Immola manet ; multosque nepoies, 
Mulla virim volvens durando saecula, vincit, 



Round thee, alas, no shadows move ! 
From thee no sacred murmurs breathe ! 
Yet within thee, thyself a grove, 
Once did the eagle scream above, 
And the wolf howl beneath. 

There once the steel-clad knight reclined, 
His sable plumage tempest-toss'd ; 
And, as the death-bell smote the wind, 
From towers long fled by human kind, 
His brow the hero cross' d ! 

Then Culture came, and days serene ; 
And village-sports, and garlands gay. 
Full many a pathway cross'd the green ; 
And maids and shepherd-youths were seen 
To celebrate the May. 

Father of many a forest deep. 
Whence many a navy thunder-fraught ! 
Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep. 
Soon destined o'er the world to sweep 

Opening new spheres of thought ! 
268 





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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 269 

Wont in the night of woods to dwell, 
The holy Druid saw thee rise ; 
And, planting there the guardian spell 
Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell 
Of human sacrifice ! 

Thy singed top and branches bare 
Now straggle in the evening-sky ; 
And the wan moon wheels round to glare 
On the long corse that shivers there 
Of him who came to die ! 



M 



FROM EURIPEDES. 



There is a streamlet issuing from a rock. 
The village-girls, singing wild madrigals, 
Dip their white vestments in its waters clear, 
And hang them to the sun. There first I saw her 
Her dark and eloquent eyes, mild, full of fire, 
'Twas heaven to look upon; and her sweet 

voice 
As tunable as harp of many strings, 
At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul ! 

Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees ; 
And all, who know it, come and come again. 
The small birds build there; and at summer-noon 
Oft have I heard a child, gay among fl^owers, 
As in the shining grass she sate conceal' d 
Sing to herself * * * 




1 



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TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST,* 



Vane, quid afFecfus faciem mihi ponere, pictor? 

Aeris et liaguse sum filia; 

Et, si vis siinilem pingere, pinge sonem. Ausonitis. 




Once more, Enchantress of the soul, 
Once more we hail thy soft control. 
— Yet whither, whither didst thou fly ? 
To what bright region of the sky ? 
Say, in what distant star to dwell ? 
(Of other worlds thou seem'st to tel!) 
Or trembling, fluttering here below, 
Resolved and unresolved to go. 
In secret didst thou still impart 
Thy raptures to the pure in heart ? 

Perhaps to many a desert shore. 
Thee, in his rage, the Tempest bore ; 
Thy broken murmurs swept along, 
'Mid Echoes yet untuned by song; 
Arrested in the realms of Frost, 
Or in the wilds of Ether lost. 

Far happier thou ! 't was thine to soar 
Careering on the winged wind. 
Thy triumphs who shall dare explore ? 
Suns and their systems left behind. 
No tract of space, no distant star, 



270 



* In the winter of 1805. 



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ON A TEAR 




!Vir.:f.l' !.L\Nr.OU.S POEMS. 

No shock Oi eltiiienls at war, 
Did thee detain. 'I hy wing of fire 
Bore thee amidst the Cherub-choir; 
And there awhile to thee 't was given 
Once more that Voice* beloved to join, 
Which taught thee first a flight divine, 
And nursed thy infant years with many a 
strain from Heaven ! 



Oh I thav the Chemist's magic art 
Could crystalize this sacred treasure ! 
Long should it glitter near my heart, 
A secret source of pensive pleasure. 

The little brilliant, ere it fell, 
Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye ; 
Then, trembling, left its coral cell — 
The spring of Sensibility ! 

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light 
In thee the rays of Virtue shine ; 
More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 
Than any gem that gilds the mine. 

Benign restorer of the soul I 
Who ever fly'st to bring relief, 

* Mra Sheridan's. 



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272 MISCELIANEOUS POSMS. 

When first we feel the rude control 
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. 

The sage's and the poet's theme, 
In every clime, in every age ; 
Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream, 
In Reason's philosophic page. 

That very law* which moulds a tear, 
And bids it trickle from its source, 
That law preserves the earth a sphere, 
And guides the planets in their course, 



ON 



ASLEEP 



Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile. 
Though shut so close thy laughing eyes, 
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, 
And move, and breathe delicious sighs !- 

Ah , now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, 
And mantle o'er her neck of snow. 
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks 
What most I wish — and fear to know. 

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 
Her fair hands folded on her breast. 

♦ The law of gravitatiou 





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MISCELLANEOUS TOEMS. 

— And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 
A seraph in the realms of rest ! 

Sleep on secure 1 Above control, 
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee ! 
And may the secret of thy soul 
Remain within its sanctuary ! 



THE BOY OF EGREMOND 




" Say, what remains when Hope is fledt" 
She answer'd, " Endless weeping !" 
For in the herdsman's eye she read 
Who in his shroud lay sleeping. 

At Embsay rung the matin-bell, 

The stag was roused on Barden-fell ; 

The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, 

And down the Wharfe a hern was flying ; 

When near the cabin in the wood, 

In tartan clad and forest-green, 

With hound in leash and hawk in hood, 

The Boy of Egremond was seen. 

Blithe was his song, a song of yore ; 

But where the rock is rent in two, 

And the river rushes through. 

His voice was heard no more ! 

'T was but a step ! the gulf he pass'd; 

But that step — it was his last ! 

As through the mist he wing'd his way 

(A cloud that hovers night and day), 
IS 






The hound hung back, and back he drew 
The Master and his merUn too. 
That narrow place of noise and strife 
Received their Httle all of Life ! 

There now the matin-bell is rung ; 
The " Miserere !" duly sung ; 
And holy men in cowl and hood 
Are wandering up and down the wood. 
But what avail they ? Ruthless Lord, 
Thou didst not shudder when the sword 
Here on the young its fury spent, 
The helpless and the innocent. 
Sit now and answer groan for groan, 
The child before thee is thy own. 
And she who wildly wanders there, 
The mother in her long despair. 
Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping. 
Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping 
Of those who would not be consoled 
When red with blood the river roU'd. 



A CHARACTER. 



As through the hedge-row shade the violet 

steals, 
And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals ; 
Her softer charms, but by their influence known, 
Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own. 





TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. 



r'T 



On thee blest youth, a father's hand confers 
The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew. 
Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers ; 
Thine be the joys to firm attachment due. 

As on she moves with hesitating grace, 
She wins assurance from his soothing voice ; 
And, with a look the pencil could not trace. 
Smiles through her blushes, and confirms the 
choice. 

Spare the fine tremours of her feeling frame ! 
To thee she turns —forgive a virgin's fears ! 
To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim : 
Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears ' 

At each response the sacred rite requires. 
From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh. 
A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires ; 
And on her lips the trembling accents die. 

O'er her fair face what wild emotions play ! 
What lights and shades in sweet confusion 

blend ! 
Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day, 
And settled sunshine on her soul descend ! 

275 




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276 




MISCELLANEOUS POEMs 



Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought ! 
That hand shall strew thy summer-path with 

flowers ; 
And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre 

liraught, 
Gild the calm current of domestic hours ! 



V 



A WISH. 



Mine be a cot beside the hill, 
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 
With many a fall, shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village -church, among the trees, 
Where tirst our marriage-vows were given, 
With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 




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Ah ! b'ttle thought she, when, with wild delight, 
By many a torrent's shining track she flew, 
When mountain-glens and caverns full of night 
O'er her young mind divine enchantment 
threw. 

That in her veins a secret horror slept, 

That her light footsteps should be heard no 

more, 
That she should die — nor watch' d, alas, nor 

wept 
By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore. 

Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew 
The kindred forms her closing eye required. 
There didst thou stand — there, with the smile 

she knew, 
She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired. 

And now to thee she comes; still, still the 

same 
As in the hours gone unregarded by ! 
To thee, how changed ! comes as she ever 

came, 
Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye ! 



* Un the death of her sister. 



277 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears, 
When lingering, as prophetic of the truth, 
By the way-side she shed her parting teeirs' 
For ever lovely in the light of Youth ! 



CAPTIVITY. 





Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes 

wake 
When the hern screams along the distant lake, 
Her little heart oft flutters to be free. 
Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key. 
In vain ! the nurse that rusted relic wears, 
Nor moved by gold — nor to be moved by tears ; 
And terraced walls their black reflection throw 
On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below. 



A FAREWELL. 



Once more, enchanting maid adieu ! 
I must be gone while yet I may ; 
Oft shall I weep to think ofyou, 
But here I will not, cannot stay. 

The sweet expression of that face. 
For ever changing, yet the same, 




fj 




miscellar::ous 

Ah no, I dare not turn to trace — 
It melts my soul, it fires my frame ! 

Yet give me, give me, ere I go. 
One little lock of those so blest, 
That lend your cheek a warmer glow, 
And on your white neck love to rest. 

— Say, when to kindle soft delight, 
That hand has chanced with mine to meet.. 
How could its thrilling touch excite 
A sigh so short, and yet so sweet ? 

O say — but no, it must not be. 
Adieu ! a long, a long adieu ! 
— Yet still, methinks, you frown on me, 
Or never could I fly from you. 



TO THE FRAGMENT OF A STATUE 

OF HERCULES, COMMONLY CAL- 

LED THE TORSO. 



And dost thou still, thou mass of breathing 

stone, 
(Thy giant limbs to night in chaos hurl'd), 
Still sit as on the fragment of a world ; 
Surviving all, majestic and alone ? 
What though the Spirits of the North, that 

swept 





280 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Rome from the earth, when in her pomp she 

slept, 
Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk 
Deep in the dust 'mid tower and temple sunk ; 
Soon to subdue mankind 't was thine to rise, 
Still, still unquell'd thy glorious energies ! 
Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caught 
Bright revelations of the Good they sought ; 
By thee that long-lost spell in secret given, 
To draw down Gods, and lift the soul to 

Heaven : 



\1 



AN ITALIAN SONG. 



fe 



Dear is my little native vale, 

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ; 

Close by my cot she tells her tale 

To every passing villager. 

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree. 

And shells his nuts at liberty. 

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, 
That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 
I charm the fairy-footed hours 
With my loved lute's romantic sound ; 
Or crowns of living laurel weave, 
For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd's horn at break of day, 
The ballet danced in twilight glade, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



281 



The canzonet and roundelay 
Sung in the silent greenwood shade, 
These simple joys that never fail, 
Shall bind me to my native vale. 



FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM. 



While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, 
And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, 
See to the last, last verge her infant steals ! 
O fly — yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. 
Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, 
And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. 



WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF 
SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 2, 1812. 



Blue was the loch, .the clouds were gone 
Ben Lomond in his glory shone. 
When, Luss, I left thee ; when the breeze 
Bore me from thy silver sands. 
Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees. 
Where, grey with age, the dial stands 
That dial so well known to me ! 
— Though many a shadow it had shed, 




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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Beloved Sister, since with thee 
The legend on the stone was read. 

The fairy-isles fled far away ; 
That with its woods and uplands green, 
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen, 
And songs are heard at close of day ; 
That, too, the deer's wild covert, fled, 
And that, the asylum of the dead : 
While, as the boat went merrily, 
Much of Rob Roy* the boatman told ; 
His arm, that fell below his knee, 
His cattle-ford and mountain-hold. 

Tarbat, thy shore I climb' d at last ; 
And, thy shady region pass'd, 
Upon another shore I stood, 
And look'd upon another flood ;t 
Great Ocean's self! ('T is He who fills 
That vast and awful depth of hills); 
Where many an elf was playing round 
Who treads unshod his classic ground ; 
And speaks, his native rocks among. 
As Fiiigal spoke, and Ossian sung. 

Night fell ; and dark and darker grew 
That narrow sea, that narrow sky, 
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew; 
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. 
And now the grampus, half- descried, 
Black and huge above the tide ; 
The cliffs and promontories there. 
Front to front, and broad and bare ; 



* A famous Outlaw. 



t Loch-Long. 



-O, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 






Each beyond each, with giant-feet 

Advancing as in haste to meet ; 

Theshatter'd fortress, whence the Dane 

Blew his shrill blast, nor rush'd in vain, 

Tyrant of the drear domain : 

All into midnight-shadow sweep. 

When day springs upward from the deep ! 

Kindling the waters in its flight, 

The prow wakes splendour ; and the oar, 

That rose and fell unseen before, 

Flashes in a sea of light ! 

Glad sign, and sure ! for now we hail 

Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale ; 

And bright indeed the path should be 

That leads to Friendship and to thee ! 

Oh blest retreat, and sacred too ! 
Sacred as when the bell of prayer 
ToU'd duly on the desert air, 
And crosses deck'd thy summits blue, 
Oft, like some loved romantic tale, 
Oft shall my weary mind recall, 
Amid the hum and stir of men, 
Thy beechen grove and waterfall, 
Thy ferry with its ghding sail, 
And her — the Lady of the Glen ! 




TO THE BUTTERFLY. 





Chii,d of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight, 
Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of hght; 
And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, 
Quaff" fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. 
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky, 
Expand and shut with silent ecstacy I 
— Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept 
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb, and 

slept. 
And such is man; scon from his cell of clay 
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day ! 



INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE 

DEDICATED TO THE GRACES. 



Daughters 



Approach with reverence. There are those 

within 
Whose dwelling place is Heaven. 

of Jove, 
From them flow all the decencies of life ; 
Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self 
Admired, not loved ; and those on whom they 

smile. 
Great though they be, and wise, and beautiful, 
Shine forth with double lustre. 
284 




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WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

OCTOBER 10, 1806- 



Whoe'er thou art, approach, and, with a sigh, 
Mark where the small remains of greatness lie. 
There sleeps the dust of Fox, for ever gone : 
How ne'ar the Place where late his glory shone ! 
And, though no more ascends the voice of 

Prayer, 
Though the last footsteps cease to linger there, 
Still, like an awful dream that comes again, 
Alas ! at best as transient and as vain, 
Still do I see (while through the vaults of night 
The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite; 
The moving Pomp along the shadowy aisle, 
That, like a Darkness, fill'd the solemn Pile ; 
The illustrious line, that in long order led, 
Of those that loved Him living, mourn'd Him 

dead ; 
Of those the Few, that for their Country stood 
Round Him who dared be singularly good : 
All, of all ranks, that claim' d Him for their own; 
And nothing wanting — but himself alone ! 

Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name ; 
Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame? 
Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead ! 
Who but v.'ould here their sacred sorrows shed? 
(Such as He shed on Nelson's closing grave ; 
How soon to claim the sympathy He gave !) 
In Him, resentful of another's wrong, 

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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong. 
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew — 
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too ? 
What though with War the madding nations 
rung 
" Peace," when He spoke, was ever on his 

tongue ! 
Amidst the frowns of Power, the tricks of State, 
Fearless, resolved, and negligently great ! 
In vain malignant vapours gather'd I'ound; 
He walk'd, erect, on consecrated ground. 
The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day, 
Reflect its splendour, and dissolve away I 
When in retreat He laid his thunder by, 
For letter' d ease and calm Philosophy, 
Blest were his hours within the silent grove, 
Where still his god-like Spirit deigns to rove ; 
Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, 
For many a deed, long done in secret there. 
There shone his lamp on Homer's hallow'd page ; 
There, listening, sate the hero and the sage ; 
And they, by virtue and by blood allied, 
Whom most He loved, and in whose arms He 
died. 
Friend of all human-kind ! not here alone 
(The voice that speaks, was not to thee un- 
known) 
Wilt Thou be missed. — O'er every land and sea, 
Long, long shall England be revered in Thee ! 
And, when the storm is hush'd — in distant 

years — 
Foes on Thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears! 



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Go — you may call it madness, folly ; 
You shall not chase my gloom away. 
There's such a charm in melancholy, 
I would noc, if I could, be gay. 

Oh if you knew the pensive pleasure 
That fills my bosom when I sigh, 
You would not rob me of a treasure 
Monarchs are too poor to buy. 



THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK. 




The sun-beams streak the azure skies, 
And line with light the mountain's brow 
With hounds and horns the hunters rise, 
And chase the roe-buck through the snow 

From rock to rock, with giant-bound. 
High on their iron poles they pass ; 
Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound, 
Rend from above a frozen mass. 

The goats wind slow their wonted way 
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude ; 

287 




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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey, 
From desert cave or hanging wood. 

And while the torrent thunders loud, 
And as the echoing cliffs reply. 
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud, 
Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high. 



AN INSCRIPTION. 



Shepherd, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner, 
Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst. 
Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, 
Arch'd, and o'erwrought with many a sacred 

verse, 
This iron cup chain'd for the general use, 
And these rude seats of earth within the grove, 
Weregiyen by Fatima. Borne hence a bride, 
'T was here she turn'd from her beloved sire, 
To see his face no more. Oh if thou canst, 
('Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flowers; 
And with a drop of this sweet water fill 
The two small cells scoop'din the marble there, 
That birds may come and drink upon his grave, 
Making it holy!* 

♦ A Turkish superstition. 



rR'^. 





TRE 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



PART I. 



Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village- 
green, 
With magic tints to harmonize the scene. 
Still' d is the hum that through the hamlet broke, 
When round the ruins of their ancient oak 
The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play. 
And games and carols closed the busy day. 
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more 
With treasured tales, and legendary lore. 
All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows 
To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 
Ail, all are fled ; yet still I linger here ! 
What secret charms this silent spot endear ! 

Mark yon old Mansion frowning through the 

trees, 

Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. 

That casement arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, 

First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. 

19 289 




The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown 

court, 
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
When nature pleased, for life itself was new 
And the heart promised what the fancy drew. 

See, through the fractured pediment rGveal'd, 
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, 
The martin's old, hereditary nest : 
Long may the ruin spare its hallow' d guest ! 

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! 
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! 
That hall, where once, in antiquated state. 
The chair of justice held the grave debate. 

Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly 
hung. 
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ; 
When round yon ample board, in due degree, 
We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. 
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling 

jest; 
And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
'Twas there we chased the slipper by the sound ; 
And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. 
'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring j 
And Fancy flutter' d on her wildest wing. 
Giants and genii chain' d each wondering ear ; 
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 



m 



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PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



291 



Oft with the babe we wander' d in the wood, 
Or view'd the forest- feats of Robin Hood : 
Oft fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, 
With starthng step we scaled the lonely tower; 
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, 
Murder' d by ruffian hands, when smiling in its 
sleep. 

Ye Household Deities ! whose guardian eye 
Mark'd each pure thought, ere register' d on 

high;* 
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, 
And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. 

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend 
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. 
The storied arras, source of fond dehght. 
With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight; 
And still, with Heraldry's rich hues imprest. 
On the dim window glows the pictured crest. 
The screen unfolds its many-colour' d chart, 
The clock still points its moral to the heart. 
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear. 
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near ; 
And has its sober hand, its simple chime. 
Forgot to trace the feather' d feet of Time ? 
That massive beam, with curious carvings 

wrought, 
Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive 

thought ; 




f 



% 





ROGERS's 



Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; 
Those once-loved forms, still breathing through 

their dust, 
Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, 
Starting to hfe — all whisper of the Past ! 

As through the garden's desert paths I rove, 
What fond illusions swarm in every grove ! 
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, 
We watch'd the emmet to her grainy nest ; 
Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, 
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! 
How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive 

rhyme, 
The bark now silver'd by the touch of Time ; 
Soar'd m the swing, half pleased and half afraid, 
Through sister elms that waved their summer- 
shade ; 
Or strew'd with crum.bs yon root-inwoven seat, 
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat ! 

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, 
The tangled wood- walk, and the tufted green! 
Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live ! 
Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give. 
Thou first best iriend that Heaven assigns 

below, 
To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; 
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, 
When nature fades, and .life forgets to charm ; 





PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Thee would the Muse invoke !— to thee belong 
The sage's precept, and the poet's song. 
What soften'd views thy magic glass reveah 
When o'er the landscape Time's meek twiliht 

steals ! 
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, 
Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; 
Thy temper'd gleams of happiness resign'd, 
Glance on the darken'd mirror of the rnind. 

The School's lone porch, with reverend 
mosses gray, 
Just tell the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn. 
Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn ; 
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air. 
When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, 
Some little friendship form'd and cherish'd here ; 
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems 
With golden visions, and romantic dreams ! 

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 
The Gipsy's fagot— there we stood and gazed ; 
Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe. 
Her tatter 'd mantle, and her hood of straw; 
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er ; 
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore. 
Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, 
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; 







Whose dark eyes flash'd through locks of !)I:u'k- 

est shade, 
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog 

bay'd :— 
And heroes fled the Sibyl's mutter'd call. 
Whose elfin prowess scaled the oichard-wall. 
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, 
And traced the line of life with searching 

view, 
How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes 

and fears, 
To learn the colour of my future years ! 

Ah, then, what honest triumph flush'd my 
breast ; 
This truth once known — To bless is to be 

blest ! 
We led the bending beggar on his way, 
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray,) 
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, 
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. 
As in his scrip we dropt our little store. 
And sigh'd to think that I'ttle was no more, 
He breathed his prayer, " Long may such good- 
ness live !" 
'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. 
Angels, when Mercy's mandate wing'd their 

flight, 
Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight. 




m 




k 



^ 



PLEABtTRES OF MEMORY. 



295 



But hark ! through those old firs, with sullen 

swell, 
The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes, 

farewell ! 

It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace 
The few fond lines that Time may soon efface. 

On yon gray stone, that fronts the chancel- 
door, 
Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, 
Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, 
"When the heart danced, and life was in its 

spring ; 
Alas 1 unconscious of the kindred earth. 
That faintly echo'd to the voice of mirth. 

The glow-worm loves her emerald-hght to 
shed. 
Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. 
Oft, as he turn'd the greensward with his 

spade 
He lectured every youth that round him play'd; 
And calmly pointing where our fathers lay. 
Roused us to rival each, the hero of his day. 

Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while here 
alone 
I search the records of each mouldering stone. 
Guides of my life ! Instructors of my youth ! 
Who first unveil'd the hallow'd form of Truth ; 





•^Q 



E"^ 



(^-^ 



■fi 



f 



296 



BOGEBS'S 




Whose every word enlighten'd and endear'd; 
In age beloved, in poverty revered ; 
In Friendship's silent register ye live, 
Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give. 



But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep, 
When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep, 
What spells entrance my visionary mind 
With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined ! 

Ethereal Power ! who at the noon of night 
Recall' St the far-fled spirit of delight ; 
From whom that musing, melancholy mood 
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good ; 
Blest Memory, hail ! Oh grant the grateful 

Muse, 
Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues. 
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, 
And trace its airy precincts in the soul. 

Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, 
Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain. 
Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise !* 
Each stamps its image as the other flies. 
Each, as the various avenues of sense 
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, 



♦ Namque illic posuit solium, et sua templa sacravit 
Mens animi : banc circum coeunt, deilsoque feruntur 
Agmine notiti®, simulacraque tenuia rerum. 




:^ /I®- 



hi 



t-o 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



m 




Brightens or fades ; yet all, with magic art, 
Control the latent fibres of the heart. 
As studious Pkospero's mysterious spell 
Drew every subject- spirit to his cell ; 
Each at thy call, advances or retires. 
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. 
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source 
"VV hence the fine nerves direct their mazy course. 
And through the frame invisibly convey 
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play ; 
Man's little universe at once o'ercast, 
At once illumined when the cloud is past. 

Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore ; 
From Reason's faintest ray to Newton soar. 
What ditlerent spheres to human bhss assign'd ! 
What slow gradations in the scale of mind ! 
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought ; 
Oh mark the sleepless energies of thought ! 

The adventurous boy, that asks his Uttle share, 
And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, 
Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see 
The dear abode of peace and privacy ; 
And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, 
The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the 

breeze. 
The village-common spotted white whh sheep, 
The church-yard yews round which his fathers 

sleep i 






■h 






ROGERS S 

A!l rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train, 
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. 

So, when the mild Tupia dared explore 
Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before, 
And, with the sons of Science, woo'd the gale 
That, rising, swell'd their strange expanse of sail: 
So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu. 
Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe. 
And all his soul best loved — such tears he shed, 
While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled. 
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast, 
Long watch' d the streaming signal from the 

mast. 
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye. 
And fairy-forests fringed the evening-sky. 

So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawn'd the day, 
Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. 
Her eyes had bless'd the beacon's glimmering 

height. 
That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light ; 
But now the morn with orient hues portray' d 
Each castle cliff", and brown monastic shade : 
All touch'd the talisman's resistless spring, 
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the 

wing! 

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire. 
As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire. 



4 






PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth. 
Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. 
Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the Patriot's 

sigh ; 

This makes him wish to live, and dare to die. 
For this young Foscart, whose hapless fate 
Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate, 
When exile wore his blooming years away. 
To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey. 
When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause, 
For this he roused her sanguinary laws ; 
Glad to return, though Hope could grant no 

more, 
And chains and torture hail'd him to the shore. 

And hence the charm historic scenes impart ; 
Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. 
Aerial forms in Tempe's classic vale. 
Glance through the gloom, and whisper in the 

gale; 
In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell, 
And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. 
*Twas ever thus. Young Ammon, when he 

sought 
Where Ilium stood, and where Pelides fought, 
Sate at the helm himself. No meaner hand 
Steer'd through the waves ; and when he struck 

the land. 
Such in his soul the ardour to explore, 
FELiDES-hke, he leap'd the first ashore; 






'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomD 
We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom: 
So TuLLY paused, amid the wrecks of Time, 
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime ; 
When at his feet, in honour' d dust disclosed, 
The immortal Sage of Syracuse reposed. 
And as he lonoj in sweet delusion hung, 
Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung ; 
Who now but meets him musing, when he roves 
His ruin'd Tusculan's romantic groves ! 
In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll 
His moral thunders o'er the subject soul I 

And hence that calm djehght the portrait gives ; 
We gaze on every feature till it lives ! 
Still the fond lover sees the absent maid ; 
And the lost friend still lingers in the shade ! 
Say why the pensive widow loves to weep, 
When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep: 
Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace 
The father's features in his infant face. 
The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away, 
Won by the raptures of a game at play ; 
He bends to meet each artless burst of joy, 
Forgets his age, and acts again the boy. 

What though the iron school of War erase 
Each milder virtue, and each softer grace ; 
What though the fiend's torpedo- touch arrest 
Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast ; 



\1 







OF MEMORY. 

Still shall this active principle preside, 
And wake the tear to Pity's selfdenied. 
The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, 
Condemn'd to chmbhis mountain- cliffs no more, 
If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild, 
Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled. 
Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise. 
And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs. 

Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm: 
Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm ; 
Why great Navarre, when France and free- 
dom bled. 
Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed. 
When Diocletian's self-corrected mind 
The imperial fasces of a world resign'd, 
Say why we trace the labours of his spade, 
In calm Solona's philosophic shade. 
Say, when contentious Charles renounced a 

throne. 
To muse ^\^th monks unletter'd and unknown, 
What from his soul the parting tribute'drew? 
What claim' d the sorrows of a last adieu ? 
The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast 
Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppress' d. 

Undamp'd by time, the generous Instinct glows 
Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows ; 
Glows m the tiger's den, the serpent's nest, 
On every form of varied life imprest. 



\1 



'\, 








ROaERS'S 

The social tribes its choicest influence hail :— 
And when the drum beats briskly in the gale, 
The war-worn courser charges at the sound, 
And with young vigour wheels the pasture 
round. 

Oft has the aged tenant of the vale 
Lean'd on Ids staff to lengthen out the tale ; 
Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed, 
From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. 
When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, 
And on the scathed oak warr'd the winter- wind ; 
When not a distant taper's twinkUng ray 
Gleam' d o'er the furze to light him on his way ; 
When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear, 
And the big rain-drops told the tempest near ; 
Then did his horse the homeward track descry. 
The track that shunn'd his sad, enquiring eye ; 
And win each wavering purpose to relent, 
With warmth so mild, so gently violent. 
That his charm'd hand the careless rein resign'd, 
And doubts and terrors vanish' d from his mind. 

Recall the traveller, whose alter'd form 
Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm ! 
And who will first his fond impatience meet? 
His faithful dog's already at his feet! 
Yes, though the porter spurn him from the door, 
Though all that knew him, know his face no 
more, 



M 





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k 



His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each, 
With that mute eloquence which passes speech. 
And see, the master but returns to die ! 
Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly ? 
The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of 

earth, 
The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth. 
These, when to guard Misfortune's sacred 

grave, 
Will firm Fidehty exult to brave. 

Led by what chart, transports the timid dove 
The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love ? 
Say, through the clouds what compass points 

her flight ? 
Monarchs have gazed, and nations bless'd the 

sight. 
Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains 

rise, 
Eclipse her native shades, her native skies : — 
'Tisvain! through Ether's pathless wilds she 

goes. 
And lights at last where all her cares repose. 

Sweet bird! thy truth shall Harlem's walls 
attest. 
And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. 
When with the silent energy 



i'i\i P With looks that ask'd, yet dared not hope 



re- 






f: 



11 



Uef. 





Want with her babes round generous Valour 

clung, 
To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, 
'Twas thine to animate her closing eye ; 
Alas ! 'twas thine perchance the first to die, 
Crush'd by her meagre hand, when welcomed 

from the sky. 

Hark ! the bee winds her small but mellow 
horn. 
Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. 
O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course, 
And many a stream allures her to its source. 
'Tis noon, 'tis night. Thateyeso finely wrought, 
Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, 
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind ; 
Its orb so full, its vision so confined ! 
Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell ? 
Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell ? 
With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue 
Of summer-scents, that charm'd her as she flew? 
Hail Memory, hail ! thy universal reign 
Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. 







> 



M 



NOTES 

TO 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



PART I. 



P. 72, 1.8. 

How oft, when purple evening tinged the west. 

Virgil, in one of his Eclogues, describes a romantic 
attacliment as conceived in sucli circumstances ; and 
the description is so true to nature, that we must 
surely be indebted for it to some early recollection. 
" You were little when I first saw you. You were^ 
with your mother gathering fruit in our orchard, and 
I was your guide. I was just entering my thirteenth 
year, and just able to reach the boughs from the 
ground." 

So also Zappi, an Italian Poet of the last century. 
*' When I used to measure myself with my goat, and 
my goat was the tallest, even then I loved Clori." 

P. 73, 1.17. 

Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear. 

I came to the place of my birth, and cried, " The 
friends of my Youth, where arethey ?"— Andanecho 
answered, "Where are they 1"— From an Arabic MS. 
20 305 



*^.' 




in 
f 



^ 

















-^ 



306 



NOTES TO 




P. 76, 1.20. 
Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise ! 

When a traveller, who was surveying the ruins of 
Rome, expressed a desire to possess some relic of its 
ancient grandeur, Poussin, who attended him, 
stooped down, and gathering up a handful of earth 
shining with small grains of porphyry, "Take this 
home," said he, "for your cabinet; and say boldly, 
Queata e Roma Jlntica." 

P. 77, 1.27. 

The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep. 

Everyman like Gulliver in Lilliput, is fastened to 
some spot of earth, by the thousand small threads 
which habit and association are continually stealing 
over him. Of these, perhaps, one of the strongest is 
here alluded to. 

When the Canadian Indians were once solicited to 
emigrate, "What !" they replied, "shall we say to 
the bones of our fathers. Arise, and go with usmto a 
foreign land?" 

P. 78, 1.7. 
So, when be breathed bis firm y»t fond adieu. 

See Cook's first voyage, book i. chap. 16. 
Another very affecting instance of local attachment 
is related of his fellow-countryman Potaveri, who 
came to Europe with M. de Bougainville.— See Les 
JardinSi chant, ii. 

P. 78, 1.16. 
So Scotia's Queen, &c. 

Elle se leve sur son lict, et se mot a contemplcr la 
France encore, et tant qu'ellc pent. — Brantome. 



o 



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t;f 



#i] 










/>^ 




PLEASURES OF MEMORY 



\ 



P. 78, 1.26. 
Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire. 
To an accidental association may be ascribed some 
of the noblest effort of liuman genius. The Historian 
of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire first con- 
ceived his design among the ruins of the Capitol; and 
to the tones ofa Welsli harp are we indebted for the 
Bard of Gray. 

P. 79, 1.3. 

Hence home felt pleasure, Stc, 

.. _ Whocanenoughadmire the affectionate attachment 

^1 i) .Z of Plutarch, who thus concludes his enumeration of 

the advantages of a great city to men of letters! "As 

to myself, I live in a little town ; and I choose to live 

there, lest it should become still less." — f^it. Demosth. 

P. 79, 1.6. 

For this young Foscari, &c. 

He was suspected of murder, and at Venice suspi- 
cion was good evidence. Neither the interest of the 
Doge, his father, nor the intrepidity of conscious inno- 
cence, which he exhibited in the dungeon and on the 
rack, could procure his acquittal. He was banished 
to the island of Candia for life. 

But here his resolution failed him. At such a dis- 
tance from home he could not live ; and, as it was a 
criminal offence to solicit the intercession of any 
foreign prince, in a fit of despair he addressed a letter 
to the Duke of Milan, and intrusted it to a wretch 
whose perfidy, he knew, would occasion his being 
remanded a prisoner to Venice. 

P. 79, 1.15. 
And hence the chann historic scenes inipfj't. 

Whatever withdraws us from the power of ou 





a 






NOTES TO 

senses; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the 
future, predominate over the present, advances us in 
the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from 
my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us 
indifferent and unmoved over any ground whicli has 
been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That 
man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not 
gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety 
would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona.-^ 
Johnson. 

P. 79, 1.21. 

And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. 

The Paraclete, founded by Abelard,in Champagne. 
P. 79, 1.22. 
Twas ever thus. Young Ammon, whea he sought. 

Alexander, when he crossed the Hellespont, was in 
the twenty-second year of his age ; and with what 
feelings must the Scholar of Aristotle have approached 
the ground described by Homer in that poem which 
had been his delight from his childhood, and which 
records the achievements of Him from whom he 
claimed his descent ! 

It was his fancy, if we may believe tradition, to 
take the tiller from Menostius, and be himself the 
steersman during the passage. It was his fancy also 
to be the first to land, and to land full -armed. — Jir- 
riauy i. 11. 

P. 80, 1.1. 

As now at Virgil's tomb. 

Vows and pilgrimages are not peculiar to the reli- 
gious enthusiast. Silius Italicus performed annual 



dr\\ 



vv>^-1 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY 





ceremonies on the mountain ofPosilipo; and it was 
tliere that Boccaccio, quasi da un divino estro inspirator 
resolved to dedicate his life to the Muses. 

P. 80, 1. 3. 

So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of time. 

When Cicero was quaestor in Sicily, he discovered 
the tomb of Archimedes by its mathematical inscrip- 
tion. — Tusc. QucEst. V. 3. 

P. 80, 1. 17. 

Say why the pensive widow loves to weep. 

The influence of the associating principle is finely ex- 
emplified in the faithful Penelope, when she shed 
tears over the bow of Ulysses.— Od. xxi.55. 

P. 81, 1.5. 

If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild. 

The celebrated Ranz des Vaches ; cet air si cheri 
des Suisses qu'il fut defendu sous peine de mort de la 
jouer dans leurs troupes, parce qui I'faisoit fondre 
en larmes, deserter ou mourir ceux qui Tentendoient, 
tant il excitoit en eux I'ardent desir de revoir leur 
pays. — Rousseau. 

The maladie de pays is as old as the human heart. 
Jcvenal's little cup-bearer 

Suspirat longo non visam tempore matrem 
Kt casulam, et notos tristis desiderat hoedos. 

And the Argive, in the heat of battle, 
Dulces morieni reminlicltur Argos. 

P. 81, 1.10. 

Say why Vespasian loved bis Sabine farm. 

This emperor, according to Suetonius, constantly 




^y 



a 






C 



310 



NOT 




passed tliH siiinnier in a small villi n?»!ir Reate, where 
he was born, and to which he would never add any 
embellishment ; ne quid scilicet oculoruni consuetudini de- 
periret. — Suet, in Vit. Vcsp. cap. ii. 

A similar instance occurs in the life of the vene- 
rable Pertinax, as related by J. Capitolinus. Postea- 
quam in Idguriam venit, raultis agris coemptis, tabcr- 
nam paternam, ?/ia7ie?tte/c»rTOa ;)riore, infinitis oedificiis 
circundedit. — Hist. Aagxist. 54. 

And it is said of Cardinal Richelieu, that, when he 
built his magnificent palace on the site of the old family 
chateau at Richelieu, he sacrificed its symmetry to 
preserve the room in which he was born. — Mem. da 
Mile, de Montpensier, i. 27. 

An attachment of this nature is generally the cha- 
racteristic of a benevolent mind ; and a long acquaint- 
ance with the world cannot always extinguish it. 

"To a friend," says John duke of Buckingham, "I 
will expose my weakness : I am oftener missing a 
pretty gallery in the old house I pulled down, than 
pleased with a saloon which I built in its stead, though 
a thousand times better in all respects." — See hia 
Letter to the D. of Sh. 

This is the language of the heart ; and will remind 
the reader of that good-humoured remark in one of 
Pope's letters — " I should hardly care to have an old 
post pulled up, that I remembered ever since I was a 
child." 

The Author of Telemachus has illustrated this 
subject with equal fancy and feeling, in the story of 
Alibee, Persan. 

P.81,1.11. 
Why great Navarre, &c. 

That amiable and accomplished monarch, Henry 



P^) 





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PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

tbe Fourth, of France, made an excursion frosn his 
camp, during the long sidge of Laon, to dine at a house 
in the forest of Folambray ; where he had often been 
regaled, when a boy, with fruit, milk, and new cheese; 
and in revisiting which he promised himself great 
pleasure. — Mem de Sully. 

P. 81, 1.14. 
When Diocletian's self-corrected mind. 

Diocletian retired into his native province, and there 
amused himself with building, planting, and garden- 
ing. His answer to Maximian is deservedly celebrat- 
ed. "If," said he, "1 could show him the cabbages 
which I have planted with my o.wn hands at Salona, 
he would no longer solicit me to return to a throne." 
P.8i,l.l8. 
Say, when contentious Charles, &c. 
When the Emperor, Charles the Fifth had executed 
his memorable resolution, and had set out for the 
monastery of Juste, he stopt a few days at Ghent to 
indulge that tender and pleasant melancholy, which 
arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, 
on visiting the place of his birth, and the objects fami- 
liar to him in his early youth. 

P. 81, 1.20. 
To muse with monks, kc. 
Monjes solitaries del glorioso padre San Geronimo, 
savs Sandova. . . . 

in a corner of the convent-garden there is this in- 
scription. En esta santa casa de S. Geronimo de 
Juste se retire a acabar tu vida Carlos V. Empera- 
ioT, <fec. — Pont- 





M 





WOTES TO PLEASURES OF MEMORT. 

P. 82, 1.16. 
Then did his hone the homeward track descry. 

The memory of the horse forms the ground- work 
of a pleasing little romance entitled, "Laidu Pale- 
froi vair."— See Fabliaux duXll. Siecle. 

Ariosto likewise introduces it in a passage full of 
truth and nature. When Bayardo meets Angelica in 
the forest, 

. . Va maniueto a la Donzella, 

Cb in Albracca il servia gia di sua mano. — Orlando Furioto, i. 75. 
P. 83, 1.23. 



Sweet bird ! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attest. 

During the siege of Harlem, when that city was re- 
duced to the last extremity, and on the point of open- 
ing its gates to a base and barbarous enemy, a design 
was formed to relieve it ; and the intelligence was 
conveyed to the citizens by a letter which was tied 
under the wing of a pigeon. — Thuanus, v. 5. 

The same messenger was employed at the siege of 
Mutina, as we are informed by the elder Tliny.— Hist. 
JVat. X. 37. 

P. 84, 1.8. 
Uark ! the bee, &c 

This little animal, from the extreme convexity of 
her eye cannot see many inches before her. 




Ik 





H''"^ '^'V/^? 



^^ 



ANALYSIS OF PART 11, 



The Memory has hitherto acted only in subser- 
vience to the senses, and so far man is not eminently 
distinguished from other animals : but, with respect 
to man, she has a higher province ; and is often busily 
employed, when excited by no external cause what- 
ever. She preserves, for his use, the treasures of art 
and science, history and philosophy. She colours 
all the prospects of life ; for we can only anticipate 
the future by concluding what is possible from 
what is past. On her agency depends every effusion 
of the Fancy, who with the boldest effort can only 
compound or transpose, augment or diminish the ma- 
terials which she has collected. 

When the first emotions of despair have subsided, 
and sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses 
with a retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires 
that noble confidence which results from the con- 
sciousness of having acted well. When sleep has 
suspended the organs of sense from their office, she 
not only supplies the mind with images, but assists in 
their combination. And even in madness itself, when 
the soul is resigned over to the tyranny of a distem- 
pered imagination, she revives past perceptions, and 





'^^h 






ANALYSIS. 

awvkens that train of thought which was formerly 
most familiar. 

Nor are we pleased only with a review of the 
brighter passages of life. Events, the most dis- 
tressing in their immediate consequences, are often 
cheiished in remembrance with a degree of enthu- 
siasm. 

But the world and its occupations give a mechanical 
impulse to the passions, which is not very favourable 
to the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and 
wei.-regulated mind that the Memory is most perfect ; 
and solitudeisher best sphere of action. With this sen- 
timent is introduced a Tale illustrative of herinfluence 
in solitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the subject 
having now been considered, so far as it relates to 
man and the animal world, the Poem concludes with 
a conjecture that superior beings are blest with a 
Dobldr exercise of this faculty. 



??; 



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u 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



PART II 





Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, 
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, 
To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours, 
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. 

Agfes and climes remote to Thee impart 
What charms in Genius, and refines in Art ; 
Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell, 
The pensive portress of her holy cell ; 
Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp 
Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp. 

They in their glorious course the guides of 
Youth, 
Whose language breathed the eloquence of 

Truth ; 
Whose Ufe, beyond perceptive wisdom, taught 
The great in conduct, and the pure in thought ; 

• 317 









'f. 



318 



ROGERS*S 



These still exist, by Thee to Fame consign'd, 
Still speak and act the models of mankind. 

From thee gay Hope her airy colouring draws; 
And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. 
From thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, 
Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. 

When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening- 
ray. 

And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play ; 

When clouds on clouds the smihng prospect 
close, 

Still through the gloom thy star serenely glows; 

Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night 

With the mild magic of reflected Mght. 

The beauteous maid, who bids the world 
adieu, 
Oft of t*hat world will snatch a fond review ; 
Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace 
Some social scene, some dear, famiUar face ; 
And ere, with iron tongue, the vesper-bell 
Bursts through the cypress-walk, the convent- 
cell, 
Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, 
To love and joy still tremblingly alive ; 
The whisper'd vow, the chaste caress prolong, 
Weave the light dance, and swell the choral 



%~'^ 



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^^1 




HL 







With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade, 
And, as it melts along the moonligbt-glade, 
To each soft note return as soft a sigh, 
And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. 

But not till Time has calm'd the ruffled breast, 
Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. 
Not till the rushing winds forget to rave, 
Is Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. 

From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail. 
And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. 
Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there ; 
Mark the fix'd gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, 
The racks of thought, and freezings of despair ! 
But p-ause not then — beyond the western wave. 
Go, see the captive barter'd as a slave ! 
Crush' d till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, 
And from hisnervelessframeindignantlyrecedes. 

Yet here, even here, with pleasures long re- 
sign' d, 
Lo ! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind. 
Her dear delusions soothe his sinking soul. 
When the rude scourge assumes its base con- 
trol; 
And o'er Futurity's blank page diffuse 
The full reflection of her vivid hues. 
'Tis but to die, and then, to weep no more, 
Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore ; 






ROGERS'S 



Beneath his plantain's ancient shade renew 
The simple transports that with freedom flew ; 
Catch the cool breeze that musky Evening 

blows, 
And quaff the palm's rich nectar as it glows ; 
The oral tale of elder time rehearse, 
And chant the rude, traditionary verse 
With those, the loved companions of his you«th, 
When life was luxury, and friendship truth. 

Ah ! why s'hould Virtue fear the frowns of 
Fate ! 
Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create ' 
A little world of clear and cloudless day, 
Nor wreck'd by storms, nor moulder'd by de- 
cay, 
A world, with Memory's ceaseless sun-shinj 

blest, 
The home of Happiness, an honest breast. 

But most we mark the wonders of her reign, 
When Sleep has lock'd the senses in her chain. 
When sober Judgment has his throne resign' d, 
She smiles away the chaos of the mind ; 
And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glows, 
From her each image springs, each colour flows. 
She is the sacred guest ! the immortal friend • 
Oft seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend, 
In that dead hour of night to Silence given, 
Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven. 



11 






PLEASTTEES OF MEMORY. 





When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying 
round 
With humble wares and pipe of merry sound, 
From his green vale and shelter' d cabin hies. 
And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies : 
Though far below the forked lightnings play, 
And at his feet the thunder dies away, 
Oft, in the saddle rudely rock'd to sleep, 
While his mule browses on the dizzy steep. 
With Memory's aid, he sits at home, and sees 
His children sport beneathfllheir native trees, 
And bends to hear their cherub-voices call, 
O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall. 

But can her smile with gloomy Madness 
dwell ? 
Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell ? 
Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain. 
And mould the coinage of the fever' d brain ? 

Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam 

supplies. 
There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies ! 
He whose arresting hand divinly wrought 
Each bold conception in the sphere of thought ; 
And round, in colours of the rainbow, threw 
Forms ever fair, creations ever new ! 
But, as he fondly snatch' d the wreath of 

Fame, 
The sceptre Poverty unnerved his frame. 
21 



^ 



p 



322 



ROGERS S 



^l 



f<? 



Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore ; 
And Hope's soft energies were felt no more. 
Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art ! 
From the rude wall what bright ideas start ! 
Even now he claims the amaranthiye wreath, 
With scenes that glow, with images that breathe! 
And whence these scenes, these images, declare. 
Whence but from Her who triumphs o'er despair? 

Awake, arise ! with grateful fervour fraught, 
Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. 
He, who, through J^Jftture's various walks, sur- 
veys , 
The good and fair her faultless line portrays ; 
Whose mind, profaned by no unhallow'd guest, 
Culls from the crowd the purest and the best ; 
May range, at will, bright Fancy'sgolden clime, 
Or, musing, mount where Science sits sublime, 
Or wake the spirit of departed Time. 
Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral Muse, 
A blooming Eden in his life reviews ! 
So rich the culture, though so small the space, 
Its scanty limits he forgets to trace. 
But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky, 
Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh ! 
The weary waste, that lengthen'd as he ran. 
Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span ! 

Ah ! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, 
1 y truth illumined, and by taste refined ? 



i&. 



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PLEASUEES OP MEMORY. 



323 



When age has quench' d the eye, and closed the 

ear. 
Still nerved for action in her native sphere, 
Oft v^'ill she rise — with searching glance pursue 
Some long-loved image vanish' d from her 

view ; 
Dart through the deep recesses of the past, 
O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast ; 
With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night. 
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light. 
So through the grove the impatient mother flies, 
Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries ; 
Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose, 
Long on the wood-moss stretch' d in sweet re- 
pose. 

Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined 
The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. 
Danger and death a dread delight inspire ; 
And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire, 
When, richly bronzed by many a summer-sun. 
He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were 
done. 




t 



Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glori- 
ous pile ; 
And ask the shatter'd hero, w^hence his smile? 
)^ Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich- 
go, 
And own what raptures from Reflection flow. 



P 




Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave ! 
A nation's grateful tribute to the brave. 
Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck hail! 
That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail. 
Long have ye heard the narratives of age, 
The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage ; 
Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray 
Gild the calm close of Valour's various day. 

Time's sombrous touches soon correct the 
piece, 
Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease : 
A softer tone of light pervades the whole, 
And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul. 

Hast thou through Eden's wild-wood vales 
pursued 
Each mountain-scene, majestically rude ; 
To note the sweet simplicity of life, 
Far from the din of Folly's idle strife ; 
Nor there awhile, with hfted eye, revered 
That modest stone which pious Pembroke 

rear'd ; 
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, 
The silent sorrows of a parting hour ; 
Still to the musing pilgrim points the place, 
Her sainted spirit most delights to trace ? 

Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride, 
O'er his dead son the gallant Ormond sigh'd. 








PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



Thus, through the gloom of Shenstone's fairy- 
grove, 
Maria's urn still breathes the voice of love. 

As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower, 
Awes us less deeply in its morning-hour, 
Than when the shades of Time serenely fall 
On every broken arch and ivied wall; 
The tender images we love to trace, 
Steal from each year a melancholy grace ! 
And as the sparks of social love expand, 
As the heart opens in a foreign land ; 
And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, 
The stranger greets each native of his isle ; 
So scenes of life, when present and confess'd, 
Stamp but their bolder features on the breast; 
Yet not an image, when remotely view'd. 
However trivial, and however rude. 
But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh, 
"With every claim of close affinity ! 

But these pure joys the world can never know; 
In gentler chmes their silver currents flow. 
Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day. 
When the hush' d grove has sung its parting lay ; 
When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car. 
Comes slowly on to meet the evening-star ; 
Above, below, aerial murmurs swell. 
From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy 
dell! 



V V 



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326 



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ROGERS S 




A thousand nameless rills, that shun the Hght, 
Stealing soft music on the ear of night. 
So oft the finer movements of the soul, 
That shun the sphere of Pleasure's gay control; 
In the still sliades of calm Seclusion rise, 
And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies! 

Once, and domestic annals tell the time, 
(Preserved in Cumbria's rude, romantic cHme) 
When Nature smiled, and o'er the landscape 

threw 
Her richest fragance, and her brightest hue, 
A blithe and blooming Forester explored 
Those loftier scenes Salvator's soul adored ; 
The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood, 
And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood ; 
Nor shunn'd the track, unknown to human tread, 
That downward to the night of caverns led ; 
Some ancient cataract's deserted bed. 

High on exuhing wing the heath-cock rose, 
And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows ; 
Ere the rapt youth, recoihng from the roar, 
Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodore ; 
And through the rifted clifTs, that scaled the sky, 
Derwent's clear mirror charm'd his dazzled 

eye. 
Each osier isle, inverted on the wave, 
Through morn's gray mist its melting colours 

gave ; 





f 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY 




And, o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove 
Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove. 

Light as the breeze that brush' d the orient dew , 
From rock to rock the young Adventurer flew ; 
And day's last sunshine slept along the shore. 
When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore. 
Embowering shrubs with verdure veil'd the 

sky. 
And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye ; 
Save when a bright and momentary gleam 
Glanced from the white foam of some shelter' d 

stream. 

O'er the still lake the bell of evening toU'd, 
And on the moor the shepherd penn'd his fold; 
And on the green hill's side the meteor play'd ; 
When, hark 1 a voice sung sweetly through the 

shade. 
It ceased— yet stillin Florio's fancy sung, 
Stili on each note his captive spirit hung ; 
Till o'er the mead, a cool, sequester'd grot 
From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot. 
A crystal water cross'd the pebbled floor, 
And on the front these simple lines it bore. 

Hence away, nor dare intrude ! 
In this secret shadowy cell 
Musing Memory loves to dwell. 
With her sister SoUtude. 




3-23 , S0GEK8*S 

Far from the busy world she flies, 
To taste that peace the world denies, 
Entranced she sits ; from youth to age, 
Reviewing Life's eventful page ; 
And noting, ere they fade away, 
The little lines of yesterday. 

Florio had gain'd a rude and rocky seat, 
When lo, the Genius of this still retreat I 
Fair was her form — but who can hope to trace 
The pensive softness of her angel-face ? 
Can Virgil's verse, can Raphael's touchimpart 
Those finer features of the feeling heart, 
Those tenderer tints that shun the careless eye, 
And in the world's contagious climate die ? 

She left the cave, nor mark'd the stranger 
there ; 
Her pastoral beauty, and her artless air 
Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul ! 
In every nerve he felt her blest control ! 
What pure and white- wing'd agents of the sky, 
Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy, 
Inform congenial spirits when they meet ? 
Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet ! 

Florio, whh fearful joy, pursued the maid, 
Till through a vista's moonlight-chequer'd shade. 
Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed, 
(Their wars suspended, and their councils closed) 



#: 



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iH> 




PLKASTJRES OF MEMORY 



An antique mansion burst in awful slate, 
A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate. 
Nor paused he there. The master of the scene 
Saw his light step imprint the dewy green ; 
And, slow advancing, hail'd him as his guest, 
Won by the honest warmth his looks express' d. 
He wore the rustic manners of a Squire ; 
Age had not quench' d one spark of manly fire; 
But giant Gout had bound him in her chain, 
And his heart panted for the chase in vain. 

Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing 

Power ! 
Wing'd with delight Confinement's lingering 

hour. 
The fox's brush still emulous to wear, 
He scour'd the county in his elbow-chair ; 
And, with view-halloo, roused the dreaming 

hound, 
That rung, by starts, his deep-toned music 

round. 

Long by the paddock's humble pale confined, 
His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind : 
And each, with glowing energy portray'd. 
The far-famed triumphs of the field dispfey'd, 
Ursurp'd the canvass of the crowded hall. 
And chased a fine of heroes from the wall. 
There slept the horn each jocund echo knew, 
And many a smile and many a story drew ! 



C^ 






-^^ 





ROGERS S 

High o'er the hearth h's forest-trophies hung, 
And their fantastic branches widely flung. 
How would he dwell on the vast antlers there ! 
These dash'd the wave, those fann'd the moun- 
tain air. 

All, as they frown'd, unwritten records bore 
Of gallant feats and festivals of yore. 

But why the tale prolong ? — His only child, 
His darling Julia on the stranger smiled. 
Her little arts a fretful sire to please. 
Her gentle gayety, and native ease 
Had won his soul ; and rapturous Fancy shed 
Her golden lights, and tints of rosy red. 
But ah! few days had pass'd, ere the bright 
vision fled ! 

When Evening tinged the lake's ethereal bluci 
And her deep shades irregularly threw ; 
Their shifting sail dropt gently from the cove, 
Down by St. Herbert's consecrated grove : 
Whence erst the chanted hymn, the taper'd rite 
Amused the fisher's solitary night : 
And still the mitred window, richly wreathed, 
Asacred calm throughthe brown foliagebreathed. 

The wild deer, starting throughthe silent glade, 
With fearful gaze their various course survey' d. 
High hung in air the hoary goat reclined. 
His streaming beard the sport of every wind ; 



M(, 






PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

And, while the coot her jet-wing loved to lave, 
Rock'd on the bosom of the sleepless wave : 
The eagle rush'd from Skiddaw's purple crest, 
A cloud still brooding o'er her giant-nest. 

And now the moon had dimm'd with dewy ray 
The few fine flushes of departing day. 
O'er the wide water's deep serene she hung, 
And her broad lights on every mountain flung ; 
When lo, a sudden blast the vessel blew, 
And to the surge consign'd the little crew. 
All, all escaped — but ere the lover bore 
His faint and faded Julia to the shore, 
Her sense had fled ! — Exhausted by the storm, 
A fatal trance hung o'er her pallid form ; 
Her closing eye a trembling lustre fired : 
'Twas life's last spark — it flutter'd and expired ! 

The father strew' d his whhe hairs in the wind, 
Call'd on his child — nor finger' d long behind ; 
And Flokio Hved to see the willow wave, 
With many an evening- whisper, o'er their grave. 
Yes, Florio hved — and, still of each possess'd, 
The father cherish'd and the maid caress'd ! 

For ever would the fond enthusiast rove, 
With Julia's spirit through the shadowy grove : 
Gaze with delight on every scene she plann'd. 
Kiss every flowret planted by her hand. 
Ah ! still he traced her steps along the glade. 
When hazy hues and gUmmering lights betray'd 







1 1 ' 



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m 



^1 



Half- viewless forms ; still listen' d as the breeze 
Heaved its deep sobs among the aged»trees ; 
And at each pause her melting accents caught, 
In sweet delirium of romantic thought ! 
Dear was the grot that shunn'd the blaze of day, 
She gave its spars to shoot a trembling ray. 
The spring, that bubbled from its inmost cell. 
Murmur' d of Julia's virtues as it fell ; 
And o'er the dripping moss, the fretted stone. 
In Florio's ear breathed language not its own. 
Her charm around the enchantress Memory 

threw, 
A charm that soothes the mind, and sweetens too! 



\1 



f/fv 




But is her magic only felt below? 
Say, through what brighter realms she bids it 

flow ; 
To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere. 
She yields delight but faintly imaged here : 
All that till now their rapt researches knew, 
Not call'd in slow succession to review ; 
But, as a landscape meets the eye of day. 
At once presented to their glad survey ! 

Each scene of bliss reveal'd, since chaos fled. 
And dawning light its dazzling glories spread ; 
Each chain of wonders that sublimely glow'd, 
Since first Creation's choral anthem flow'd; 
Each ready flight, at Mercy's call divine, 
To distant worlds that undiscover'd shine ; 




PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



J?S3 



Full on her tablet flings its living rays, 

And all, combined, with blest effalgence blaze. 

There thy bright train, immortal Friendship 
soar ; 
No more to part, to mingle tears no more ! 
And, as the softening hand of Time endears 
The joys and sorrows of our infant years, 
So there the soul, released from human strife, 
Smiles at the little cares and ills of life ; 
Its lights and shades, its sunshine audits showers; 
As at a dream that charm' d her vacant hours ! 

Oft may the spirits of the dead descend 
To watch the silent slumbers of a friend ; 
To hover round his evening-walk unseen. 
And hold sweet converse on the dusky green ; 
To hail the spot where once their friendship grew, 
And heaven and nature open'd to their view ! 
Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees 
A smiling circle emulous to please ; 
There may these gentle guests delight to dwell, 
And bless the scene they loved in life so well I 

Oh thou ! with whom my heart was wont to 

share 
From Reason's dawn each pleasure and each 

care ; 
With whom, alas ! I fondly hoped to know 
The humble walks of happiness below ; 





^^75^. 



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r.?i 



ROGERS S 




If thy blest nature now unites above 
An angel's pity with a brother's love, 
Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control, 
Correct my views, and elevate my soul ; 
Grant me thy peace and purity of mind. 
Devout yet cheerful, active yet resign'd ; 
Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no 

disguise, 
Whose blameless wishes never aim'd to rise. 
To meet the changes Time and Chance present, 
With modest dignity and calm content. 
When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest, 
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed ; 
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, 
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed ; 
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, 
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave ? 
The sweet Remembrance of unblemish'd youth, 
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth I 

Hail, Memory, hail ! in thy- exhaustless mine 
From age to age unnumber'd treasures shine I 
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey. 
And Place and Time are subjects to thy sway ! 
Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone ; 
The only pleasures we can call our own. 
Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, 
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky ; 
If but a beam of sober Reason play, 
Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts awav ! 




But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, 
Snatch the rich relics of a well- spent hour ? 
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 
Pour round her path a stream of living light ; 
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ' 



4^ 





r) 



These still exist, &c 

There is a future Existence even in this world, an 
Existence in the hearts and minds of those who shall 
live after us. It is in reserve for every man, how- 
ever obscure ; and his portion, if he be diligent, must 
be equal to his desires. For in whose remembrance 
can we wish to hold a place, but such as know, and 
are known by us "? These are within the sphere of 
our influence, and among these and their descendants 
we may live for evermore. 

It is a state of rewards and punishments ; and, like 
that revealed to us in the Gospel, has the happiest 
influence on our lives. The latter excites us to gain 
the favour of God, the former to gain the love and 
esteem of wise and good men ; and both lead to the 
same end ; for, in framing our conceptions of the 
Deity, we only ascribe to Him exalted degrees of 
Wisdom and Goodness. 

22 337 












NOTES TO 

P. 102, 1. 3. 

Tet stili how sweet the soothings of his art ! 

The astronomer chalking his figures on the waJI, 
in Hogarth's view of Bedlam, is an admirable exem- 
plification of this idea. — See the Rake's Progressy 
plate 8. 

P. 102, 1. 24. 
Toms but to start, and gazes but to sigh '. 

The following stanzas are said to have been written 
on a blank leaf of this Poem. They present so alfect- 
jng a reverse of the picture, that I cannot resist the 
opportunity of ^troducing them here. 




S OT I 



Pleasures of Memory ! — oh ! supremely blesi, 

And justly proud beyond a Poet's praise ; 
!f the pure confines of thy tranquil breast 
Contain, indeed, the subject of thy lays ! 
By me how envied ! — for to me, 
The herald still of misery, 
Memory makes her influence knows 
By sighs, and tears, and grief alone : 
I greet her as the fiend, to whom belong 
The vulture's ravening beak, the raven's funeral song. 
She tells of tinse mispent, of comfort lost, 

Of fair occasions gone for ever by ; 
Of hopes too fondly nursed, too rudely crossed, 
Of many a cause to wish yet fear to die; 
For what, except the instinctive fear 
Lest she survive, detains me here, 
When " all the life of life" is fled ?— 
What, but the deep inherent dread. 
Lest she beyond the grave resume her reign. 
And realize the hell that priests and beldames feign ? 

P 104, 1. 14. 
Hast thou through Eden's wild-wood vales pursued. 

On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby, 
there stands a small pillar with this inscription : 




j5v ^ 



"^>'^^"?^^ 










PLEASURES OF MEMORY, 

"This pillar was erected in the year 1656, by Ann 
Countess Dowager of Peinbrcke, &c. for a memoriat 
of her last parting, in this place, with her good and 
pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cum- 
berland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof 
she hath left an annuity of 4Z. to be distributed to th« 
poor of the parish of Brougham, every *id day of 
April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard by. 
Laus Deo!" 

The Eden is the principal river of Cumberland, anil 
lises in the wildest part of Westmoreland. 

P. 104, 1. 27. 
O'er his dead son the gallant Ormond sigh'd. 
*' I would not exchange my dead son" said he,*' far 
ioy living son in Christendom."— /yM?/i€. 

The same sentiment la inscribed on an urn at the 
Leasowes. "lieu, quanto minus est cum reiiquis 
versari, quam tui meniinisse I" 

p. 110, I. 19. 

Down by St. Herbert'6 consecrated grove ; 

A small island covered with trees, among which 
were formerly the ruins of a religious house. 

P. Ill, 1. 9. 
When lo ! a suaden blast the vessel blew. 
In a mountain-lake the agitations are often violent 
and momentary. The winds blow in gusts and 
eddies ; and the water no sooner swells, than it sub- 
sides. — See Bourii's Hist, of Weslmoreland. 

P. 112,1. 17. 
To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere ; 

The several degrees of angels may probably have 




m 




WOTES TO PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

larger yiewa, and some of them be endowed with ca- 
pacities able to retain toi'ether, and constantly set 
before them, as in one picture* all their past know> 
ledge at once.— -Loek«. 




